There were six hours to go until the party began, and Anders was dreading it more than he'd ever dreaded anything that didn't involve Templars. Well, or the Deep Roads. Or his Harrowing. Or -

All right, so he was a coward and he knew it. Cowards shouldn't have to attend parties.

He'd had a bad feeling about this one ever since Hawke had persuaded him to attend, weeks ago. It had only worsened when Hawke had dragged him along to the tailor to get his measurements taken, apparently with the intention of commissioning a fancy new party outfit especially for the occasion. The idea had given him a vague squirm of unease at the time, but now that the idea was reality the unease was an almost physical weight in his stomach.

The finished product was laid out now on the divan in what was officially known as the 'sewing room' of Hawke's estate, but had unofficially become Anders' room, since he was the only one who actually used it for crafting - potions, poultices, and occasionally more. He slept in Hawke's bedroom when he slept up in the house at all rather than collapsing on his cot in the clinic or camping out, but most of the spare junk and detritus that had migrated up from the clinic to keep safely at the estate was in here.

"This is it?" Anders said, trying to throttle down on the alarm in his voice as he looked from the outfit to Hawke; Hawke, grinning, nudged him forward. "It's... not what I was expecting."

"Not what you were expecting how?" Hawke prodded him. "Come on, you haven't even tried it out yet. Too long? Too loose? Too scratchy?"

"Too... gaudy, " Anders admitted.

Anders was by no means an expert in fashion, but he knew enough of the different kingdoms scattered across Thedas to be able to tell them apart by their styles of dress. Fashion in the Free Marches, with its chaotic history and precarious placement between several other bigger players on the cultural stage, had always been an eclectic mix of different influences and Kirkwall was no exception.

If cannibalising several different styles and spitting out the result was considered high fashion then, Anders had to admit, this was a splendid example. The base color was black, as was all formal clothing in Tevinter, but spun of a richly textured and patterned cloth of Orlesian style. Anders couldn't find anything to complain about the neatly-tailored trousers - aside from the rich softness of the fabric, the very touch of which made him nervous and jumpy for reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself. They were pants, they were black. Simple enough. The boots, though -

"Maker, am I actually expected to climb stairs like this?" Anders said, examining the raised heel platforms with a deep wariness. "I certainly hope this party of yours isn't going be unexpectedly crashed by Templars, because I'll break my neck if I try to run in these heels. Who thought it was a good idea to put boots on stilts, anyway?"

"Orlesians," Hawke shrugged. "It's for riding horses, I think. Fits better in the stirrups so you don't fall off, which I gather is harder than you'd think when trying to direct a horse into battle."

"No horses in Kirkwall," Anders grumbled, setting the boots aside. They were stiff as wood and went all the way up to knee without any give; he hoped he would be able to walk in them, unable to bend his ankles, without falling on his face.

But the boots, strange as they were, were the least of his worries. It was the further up he went on the outfit that the real trouble started. The pants came with a - considering the closeness of the tailoring - entirely superfluous belt of gold-threaded black lace. It was the tunic itself that worried him; the base was as black as the trousers, but emblazoned with a winding pattern of golden thread that started at the hemline and wound asymmetrically up the tunic until it blazed bright gold around the neck. The collar itself was broad and open, cut in a V-neckline as the Orlesians preferred, although at least ruthless Free Marches practicality had done away with the huge, elaborate, wire-frame collars that had the risk of accidentally slicing open the throats they were adorning.

Just the amount of shining precious metal that had gone into gold-leafing that tunic made Anders feel anxious and faintly upset, but it didn't end there. The upper arms of the tunic below the shoulder puffed out slightly, Orlesian-style, but were gathered above and below the folds of cloth with gold Tevinter cuffs. The outfit also came with a pair of elbow-length black gloves, leather as soft and supple as suede, the cuffs and knuckles decorated with bright shiny metal accents. All in all, it was more metal than Anders was accustomed to wearing into battle, let alone to a social event.

"And this party is going to be Templar-free, guaranteed," Hawke promised him. "The whole point is that Ser Marlein wants to gather together a common interest of the Hightown nobles who are opposed to Meredith's blatant power-grab, under the excuse of another frivolous soiree that no one will think twice about. That's why I'm going, and part of the reason I want you to be there too."

"Only part?" Anders gave a nervous little laugh. In his experience, Templars tended to turn up where they were least wanted, invited or not. "What's the rest of it? Expecting knife-duels in the back garden and think it would be useful to have a healer on hand?"

Hawke grabbed Anders around the waist and spun him until he ended up in Hawke's arms, with Hawke's face inches from his own; the movement and proximity left him breathless and slighty dizzy. "The rest of the reason," Hawke murmured, his voice rumbling low against Anders' chest, "is that I think it's high time the rest of Kirkwall got a good look at just how lucky I am, and how much they're missing out on now that I've got you for my own."

Heat flooded Anders' face and his mouth went dry as sand; he had to swallow several times before he could even clear his throat and look away, avoiding the intensity of Hawke's eyes. "Okay - okay but seriously, what is this?" he asked, stepping away and holding up a drape of cloth with the same rich-textured patterns and fine gold-thread embroidery. "Is this a cape, or what? I don't have any idea how to wear this."

Hawke allowed the distraction, looking over indulgently at the item of clothing Anders was brandishing. "It's a mantle, actually," he said. "Sort of like a cape, but worn at the waist instead of the shoulders."

Anders made a face at him. "So it's a butt-cape, is what you're saying? I don't think my butt needs a cape."

"Has to do with horses again, I think," Hawke said, wrinkling his nose. "It's a nice butt-cape, as butt-capes go, but you don't have to wear it if you don't want to; I admit it would impede the view."

"Does that go for the whole thing or just the mantle?" Anders said hopefully.

Hawke sighed, a long-suffering and weary sigh. "Anders, we've been over this..."

Anders' shoulders hunched. "I know," he said miserably, but he didn't retract the question. A part of him was still clinging to the hope, however forlorn, that he could be let out of this.

Hawke stepped forward again and laid his hands on Anders' shoulder. On the ratty, stained, and patched seams of his old, familiar coat. The one that belonged to him - the one he belonged in. "I'm not going to force you into anything you really, really don't want you to do," he said firmly. "But I want... I would like... I would really like it if you would do this for me. Wear the outfit. Come to the party, if just for a little while. Let the world see how beautiful you really are. Would you do this, Anders, my love? Do it for yourself, for me?"

It should have been flattering, and it was, but more than anything it left a feeling of pressure around Anders' lungs, a growing feeling of panic as if he was underwater. "I..." Anders looked away. "I said I would, didn't I? I wouldn't let you down."

"Then what's got you so upset?" Hawke touched under Anders' chin, encouraging him to lift his face back up. "Really, you'd think I was asking you to charge into another dragon fight at the Bone Pit, not wear a fancy outfit for a few hours."

"It's just..." Anders couldn't help but fret, his gaze drawn fascinated and horrified over the beautiful clothes. They were so fine, so glittering - just the materials alone must have cost a small fortune, let alone the labor that had gone into tailoring them so finely. "They must have been so expensive..."

"Hardly at all, actually," Hawke said with a grin. "Remember that merchant's daughter we saved?"

"Which one?" Anders asked after a moment's thought.

"You know - the one whose kidnapper was hiding out on the Wounded Coast?"

"You'll have to be more specific than that, Hawke," Anders chided him. Rescuing kidnap victims off the Wounded Coast was damn near a weekly occurrence for the Champion of Kirkwall. "I don't think I recall..."

"I'm sure you do. You put her fingers back on, remember?"

"Ooh, that one, " Anders said immediately, as the memory came rushing back. Kidnapping cases were never pretty, but this one had been especially ugly; the first letter had arrived to her father with a pinky finger enclosed, and Hawke and his party had spent the next two days playing a game of cruel and twisted scavenger's hunt following subsequent notes - with subsequent fingers - all over Darktown.

The other members of the rescue party (especially Fenris) had been vocal about their disgust that Anders had collected the fingers and carried them along with him in a jar, periodically refreshing it with a wash of creation magic; but when they'd finally caught up to the kidnapper and rescued the terrorized girl, he'd been successfully able to reattach all but one.

"Right, that one," Hawke said, pulling out of a little shiver of recollection. "Anyway, her father is a coutierre, and when he heard about my little commission he volunteered to make it gratis, cost of materials only. It was a lot less than you'd think - certainly a lot less than he considered his daughter's life, and use of her hands, was worth."

"That's not something he should have to pay for," Anders muttered.

"Nor did he," Hawke said firmly. "He volunteered his time, effort and skill towards what he considered to be a noble cause. Which is no less than you did."

"I'm sorry..." Anders sighed. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, I just... I can't stop thinking about how much these clothes are worth. How many families in Lowtown could eat for a week on the worth of just the boots alone? And for what, just for me to parade around and look pretty? I can't..."

"I thought you might say that," Hawke said, determinedly cheerful despite Anders' apparently need to kill all joy in the room. He picked up the tunic and pressed it firmly into Anders' faltering hands. "Listen. These are a gift, every scrap and thread. They are yours. If tomorrow you want to take them down to the pawn shop and sell them, and donate every copper to charity, you can absolutely do that. All I ask is that you wear them tonight."

At those words, the underlying buzzing growl of disapproval at the back of Anders' mind turned into a pleased hum, and he was flooded with thoughts of how good that would be, how much money he could raise for the clinic that way and how many mages they could help to free. Traitor, Anders thought to the back of his head, not even sure why the sudden loss of pressure from Justice's quarter unsettled him so much.

"That's..." The flow of words choked off. "I don't know how to thank you."

"I'll think of something later tonight." Hawke's face lit up with the force of his grin, nose and eyes crinkling above the broad white smile. He leaned in for a kiss, but kept it short. "All right, I've got to go - got some last minute running around to do. I'll leave you to the able mercy of your helpers." He let go of Anders' shoulder with a pat.

"Wait," Anders said. "What helpers?"

Apparently already anticipating the success of his tactics, Hawke had drafted a team of Orana, Bodahn, and Isabela to get him ready for the party tonight. Anders suspected that Isabela had mostly been included as one who was both able and willing to hamstring him if he made a break for it.

Anders had always thought of Hawke's employees as his friends - it made him less uneasy than thinking of them as servants. But no friends of his, he was quite sure, would have showed quite so little mercy in bundling him around for the next several hours with so little regard for his protests - at "Messere Hawke's orders, so sorry."

He was divested of his usual outfit and ushered into a bath, which went on for almost an hour - the hot water and fragrant bath salts were pleasant enough at least, and would have been quite relaxing if he were not being belabored into scrubbing every speck of dirt from his skin and under his nails. His hair was thoroughly soaped - with something that smelled suspiciously Orlesian - and dunked under the water not just once, but three times. Bodahn also insisted on shaving him, despite Anders' protests that he was a grown man perfectly capable of managing his own facial hair. The razor he used was, admittedly, much finer than the herbing knife Anders normally had to make do with, and the fragrant water stung and tingled on the skin of his cheeks that hadn't felt the touch of air in a long time.

When Bodahn finally allowed him out of the bath, he felt as though at least three layers of grime and one of skin had been lifted. Bodahn pushed another suspiciously Orlesian lotion on him for his hair and skin, the type of which Anders had always been suspicious - he had a healer's proper appreciation of hygiene, sure, but if you were bathing so often that it literally stripped out the protective layers of hair and skin, then you ought to consider toning it down just a bit.

Wrapped in a fluffy cotton robe - Anders thought it was one of Hawke's by the way the sleeves rode up on his wrists, but it smelled only of soap and sun, not of the man himself - Anders was ushered back out into the sewing room. With a sinking heart he couldn't help but notice that his old clothes were missing, leaving only The Outfit to change into. It was beginning to loom large enough in his mind to earn capital letters of its own: The Outfit.

It seemed it was not yet time to subject him to The Outfit, though; instead he was pushed into a padded chair and told to sit still while Orana fussed behind him with a pair of scissors and an array of combs and brushes. Bodahn tsked over the state of his nails before tackling them with an emery board. When he objected that he could do that himself, Isabela informed him dryly that he'd given no one any faith in his ability to groom himself since moving to Kirkwall.

That left him with nothing to do but sit and fret, growing increasingly agitated the longer he was worked over like a prize-show animal at a farmer's market. The knot in his stomach was spreading throughout his torso, an oppressive weight as though he'd swallowed a lump of lead. Anders wasn't even entirely certain what was causing it; he misliked being pushed and pulled around, but Orana and Bodahn were both smaller than himself and, more importantly, not wearing plate armor, so they didn't set off his usual inner alarms.

It was more the amount of time and effort they were throwing into this that made him nervous. He knew on an objective level that they were being compensated for their time, but... "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the work you're throwing into this, but there's not really much point," he said. "You're trying to put lipstick on a pig here."

Isabela snorted, prowling around the room until she was in his line of sight and crossing her arms. "I'll pretend that you didn't just imply my taste is so low that I'd sleep with a pig," she said dryly.

"No, of course I wouldn't...!" Anders broke off with a wince, and not just because Orana had tugged at a particularly stubborn knot in his hair. "...That was a long time ago. I'm not that fresh young runaway from the Tower any more."

"Definitely not," Isabela drawled. "The boy has become a man."

Flirting was just Isabela's normal mode of communication, but Anders shied away from it all the same. He tried to laugh it off. "Isabela, I know you like ships, but I'm a real wreck," he said.

"Nonsense Messere," Orana said soothingly, while her slender elven hands pushed his chin back up into a normal position so she could keep snipping.

"See, I put the 'mess' back in 'Messere,' " Anders joked, but didn't even get a chuckle. Tough crowd. "I mean, there's a reason I usually keep my coat on. I'm skin and bones."

Orana let out an offended huff of protest from behind him, and Bodahn rapped his knuckles with the emery board. "Now don't say that in front of Orana," he scolded. "She and Messere Hawke have done a fine job of fattening you up again, see if we haven't!"

Isabela let her eyes run down over the loosely belted robe, a smile quirking her face. "All that running around the Wounded Coast swinging a staff has kept you in fine shape, so stop worrying."

"Be that as it may, I'm not a young man any more." Anders squirmed, wishing himself anywhere but here. Like in his clinic, hands buried up the elbow in some unfortunate patient's torso. Or wading through the sewers, leading some escaped apprentices to safety outside the walls of the clinic. Somewhere that someone like him belonged. "You could probably use my face as a washboard for all the crevasses in it."

"You have lovely bones. You did then, and you still do now." Isabela wandered over to a case that had been set out on the sideboard, inspecting the contents and laying out a few small, unidentifiable tools. Anders eyed them warily; he didn't think he was going to be subject to torture in his own home, but with Isabela you never knew. "Besides, what else does makeup exist for except to make the old look young again?"

"Makeup, on this fish-belly skin?" Anders forced a laugh. "It's a waste. I've been in Darktown too long, I look like a ghost. Kirkwall's finest would have one look at me and laugh me out of Hightown."

"Pale's popular in Orlais. Shows everybody that you're too good to work out in the fields with the common peasants." Isabela gave him a sideways look. "Really, your dying-of-consumption look would fit right in there."

Anders bit his lip. "But I'm not..."

Isabela dropped the case back on the table and whirled to face him, throwing her hands in the air in pure exasperation. "Storms at sea, Anders, what has gotten into you?" she shouted. "Enough of the put-downs! You never used to be like this. What happened to the pretty boy I knew who sauntered into the Pearl and was propositioned by half a dozen customers within the hour?"

Anders winced and looked away, wishing he could melt back into the chair. "That boy's long gone, Isabela," he muttered. "And good riddance to him."

Isabela paced up to stand in front of him, putting one hand under his chin to tip his face up. She peered into his eyes, her own gaze narrowed suspiciously. "Is Justice putting these words in your mouth?" she demanded. "Getting you down on yourself so you'll do his bidding more easily?"

"No!" Anders denied immediately. He felt a pang of hurt shoot through his chest, and knew it was not his own. Truthfully, Justice had been nothing but amenable since Hawke had given him permission to sell the clothes. He didn't understand why all this song and dance was necessary for that purpose, but then again, there were a lot of mortal customs he didn't understand. He'd learned to be patient. "He wouldn't. This is... this is all me."

"Then stop arguing and let us work!" Isabela fixed him with a death glare, then released his face with a pinch that left his skin stinging. He raised a hand to rub it gingerly as Isabela walked away, snatching up the case from the table with a huff. "Orana, are you done with the scissors? I don't want bits of hair getting stuck under the makeup."

"All done, Serah," Orana assured her. "I just have a little work to do with the flatiron and brushes."

"Makeup?" Anders was surprised. "You'll be doing... my makeup?"

"Well I'm not here just to look pretty and hold up the walls," Isabela replied acerbically. "Trust me, you won't find a better hand at makeup in Kirkwall."

"Yes, but..." Anders tried to gesture his meaning, as best as he could with Bodahn still in secure possession of his hand. "You're not exactly... I mean, you and I aren't... I'm not..."

The dark-skinned pirate looked back at him, raising one eyebrow and leaving it up. Anders hastily revised what he was about to say. "...a woman?" he muttered weakly.

Isabela chuckled as she took a seat in front of him, pulling a few small wooden boxes out of the case. "We're not exactly doing anything fancy here," she said. "Just a bit of a natural look."

"I'd think the natural look would be no makeup at all," Anders said, forcing a chuckle. It was getting hard to breathe, let alone laugh, and his head felt unnaturally light.

"Well, that's because you don't understand makeup," Isabela shot back. "The colors might be different, but the principles are still the same. Some solid-color cream for the foundation, to even out the skin tone... then matching powder on top, to scatter the light and give it a natural texture..."

Anders held still as his face was attacked by tiny brushes, the creams and powders tickling over his nose and tingling against his newly shorn cheeks. The anxiety refused to be dispelled, coiling ever tighter around his stomach, and even the lightest brush of horsehair against his skin felt magnified. He was already pushed back as far in his chair as he could go, which didn't really give him any room to flinch away when Isabela went after his eyes with a tiny pencil. "That's the problem with you blonds," she scolded. "Your eyelashes and eyebrows just sort of fade out against your skin, so we'll need to bring them back a bit... There. And just a touch of color here and here - forehead, nose, cheeks, everywhere the light would fall..."

Isabela finished up at about the same time Orana did, stepping away and proudly declaring her work complete. "There, Messere, what do you think?"

The elven servant stepped away and snagged one of the mirrors from the crafting benches, pulling it over and turning it around to face the chair Anders sat in. He looked into it, and a stranger stared back.

Isabela had been right about the makeup; if he hadn't just had it put on he wouldn't have realized the man in the mirror was wearing any at all. Smooth-browed, bright-eyed, with high cheekbones and a long elegant nose that looked just faintly kissed by the sun. Orana had done something impossible with his hair - down from its usual messy knot at the back of his head, washed and brushed, it fell around his face in a way that subtly changed the shape of it. The rest of it fell to the side and back in bright golden waves that seemed to outshine the lantern light.

It was a face that Anders hadn't seen looking out of his mirror in a good ten years - if then - and he barely got hold of the basin Orana had been using to catch the fallen clippings of his hair before he threw up.

His helpers quite understandably shied back from him, exclaiming in dismay as his stomach heaved again. "Maker, Anders, what's gotten into you?" Isabela exclaimed, but Anders couldn't answer her. He dropped the basin onto the floor, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

It was too much, too much, too much. This was a fine thanks for all the work they'd put into him this afternoon, Anders knew it, but he'd known there would be no point, it was a waste, it was wasted on him. Now they'd all know it, and he just wished, he just wished they hadn't had to see.

He was only vaguely aware of people moving around the room around him, voices murmuring quietly, before Isabela went to the door and knocked smartly on the wooden panel. The door opened and Hawke's voice came muffled from the other side. "Is he ready?" Hawke asked eagerly, and Anders wanted to die of shame.

"No, he's pretty far from 'ready,' " Isabela said testily. "But I think you'd better get your ass in here anyway. As far as I'm concerned, this is definitely boyfriend territory."

"What?" Hawke's voice rose sharply. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Isabela replied, her voice dropping to a low hiss at the edge of Anders' hearing. "This isn't the 'Oh I'm too busy to act like a real person for a change, I have to save the poor and downtrodden' I was expecting. Something is seriously wrong here. He needs someone and I don't think it's me. I think..."

Her voice faded as she stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her. Both voices dropped as Anders still sat in the chair, clutching at pieces of himself while the world seemed to collapse in around him. He didn't blame her for leaving, or Bodahn or Orana either. He didn't want to be in a room with himself right now either.

Maker, what was the matter with him? Isabela had it right. Something was wrong with him, something fucked up and dirty and broken, and it couldn't be fixed. This shouldn't be happening over a bath and a fancy outfit. Hawke had asked him for this, and Hawke never asked him for anything - well, aside from his Warden maps. And his help in the Deep Roads. And his help with that schemer Petrice, and with the Qunari, and... and...

All right, Hawke hardly ever asked him for anything.

The point was it was such a small thing to do to make his lover happy, and Anders couldn't do it. He just couldn't. The thought of making himself up like a peacock and going out there, exposing himself to the eyes of all those nobles... they'd take one look at him and laugh, they'd know, they'd know that he wasn't one of them - he didn't belong - he didn't deserve any of this, the pretty clothes or the fancy house or anything at all. He didn't, and not all of Hawke's pretending could make it so. Hawke belonged in Hightown, in his family's house and rubbing elbows with the nobles, moving easily among them with the poise and confidence of someone - well, someone born to it. Which, technically, he was.

Speak a demon's name and it would come - the door eased open again, then clicked quietly closed. Strong arms wrapped around Anders' shoulders, pulling him up off the floor and onto the divan. "Anders," Hawke said, and his voice was so sad, he couldn't bear it. "Oh, Anders... love, what's wrong?"

Anders made an inarticulate sound of misery in his throat, and kept his face buried in his hands. He couldn't even explain it to himself, how could he explain it to Hawke?

Warm hands closed around his wrists, tugging his hands away from his face - Anders resisted, but Hawke was determined. A cool, damp cloth replaced them and Anders took hold of it gratefully, washing away the mess of tears and ruined makeup and traces of vomit.

Hawke didn't comment on the mess, just pulled him back against his chest and leaned against the back of the divan. One hand carded through Anders' hair, which felt cool from the bath and silk-smooth from Orana's labor. Anders felt terrible, again, for wasting the elven girl's time. "Isabela said you said this isn't because of Justice," Hawke said at length, breaking the quiet that had fallen around them.

Anders sat up at that, frowning. "It's not," he said vehemently. "Why does everyone assume that?"

"I'm not assuming, I just..." Hawke sighed. "I don't understand what's driving this. Talk to me, love."

Anders drew in a deep breath. Apparently he was going to have to talk, if only to keep people from assigning blame where it wasn't deserved. And yet... His throat closed as tightly as though a plate gauntlet had locked around it and he shook his head mutely, hanging his head so that his hair would hide his face.

Hawke kept quiet, for once in his life, just running his hand soothingly down Anders' head and neck and back. It felt like he was being petted, like a cat, and Anders supposed he could see the appeal.

"I don't belong," he admitted at last, his voice small and lost, and Hawke's hand stilled briefly before continuing its soothing stroke.

"And here I thought you'd make a lifestyle of being places that you don't belong," Hawke murmured encouragingly. "Why else run away seven times from the Circle?"

"It's not the same..." Anders sighed. He didn't know how to explain it to Hawke. Maker, he didn't even know how to explain it to himself.

"Are you afraid of them? The nobles?" Hawke asked, shifting around to look Anders in the eye. Anders regretted the loss of the soothing hand, as much as he enjoyed the sight of his lover's face. He had a serious, fierce expression on his face, like he was ready to fight a noble for Anders' honor right on the spot. "Afraid of what they'll do to you, or what they'll say? Because I'm telling you, you're worth ten of any of them. Most of them haven't accomplished a single thing in their lives past being born."

"It's not -" Anders swallowed. "It's not them I'm afraid of... not exactly."

Hawke frowned, his brow wrinkling with concern. "Then what are you afraid of?" he said. "Templars? There won't -"

"Me."

Hawke paused, taking this in and working it over in his head; from the look on his face, that made as little sense to him as it sounded to Anders. "I don't understand," he admitted at last.

Anders sighed, and made another effort to force his thoughts to behave, to weave some kind of coherent thread out of the snarled fibers of fear and panic and hurt and loss and anger. "Isabela was right about one thing," he said at last, voice quiet. "Ten years ago, I would have loved a setup like this. Fancy clothes, fancy party, the chance to waggle my ass in the face of everyone who thought I ought to be locked away... to indulge in all of the things that everyone else thought I didn't deserve to have..."

He swallowed, his hands tightening on Hawke's arms, unable to look Hawke in the eye. "But it's not the same. I've changed. I'm not that man any more. To do what I must... to fight for those who need me... I gave all that up. He was a selfish bastard who never cared for anyone except himself, for filling his stomach with food and wine and his body with one-night stands. I can't be that man any more... no matter how... how much I want to."

The last few words escaped him in a rush, and he couldn't help the cringe that accompanied them, at admitting such a shameful weakness. Hawke's eyebrows flew up, and he looked surprised, but not judging or angry. Of course not, Anders thought. He still didn't understand.

"You want to?" he asked.

Anders shook his head quickly, jerky and frustrated. "I can't let myself want to," he said. "I knew when I started this life that it would be hard, that there would be sacrifices. I have to let them go, not grab them as soon as they come within arm's reach again. I'm afraid... afraid if I let myself slip, if I give in to temptation... it'll all come rushing back. I'll lose everything I fought for, struggled for... and be just that selfish bastard again and I can't... I can't..."

"You're afraid... of temptation?" Hawke worked his way through this rambling speech, spearing right to the heart of the issue. He smiled, a relieved look taking over his features. "Love, giving in to a little temptation isn't the end of the world."

"I'm a mage, Garrett," Anders hissed, glaring at his lover. How could Hawke not understand this? "Of course it is."

Hawke winced and looked away, and Anders was immediately filled with remorse. Now that he'd said it aloud he saw the block in his thinking, the one that had been drilled into him by his Circle training. It was so easy to think of everything as the Fade, of every obstacle or frustration as a demon that had to be defied... but it didn't have to be like that, did it?

"I think I understand why you feel that way," Hawke said at last, sounding subdued. "Why you might feel like you can't take anything for yourself. But, Anders? That's bullshit.

"This isn't the Fade. This isn't the Circle. You don't need to prove to anyone how much hardship you can take and still stand up under it - not yourself, not Justice, and certainly not to me," Hawke continued, sounding passionate. "It doesn't make you any less the man you are now - the man who fights for freedom and heals poor people for nothing - if you wear a fancy outfit and go to a fancy party."

Anders swallowed, tightening his grip on Hawke as though afraid of being swept away. "But what if I... like it too much?" he asked in a little voice.

"I dearly hope you do," Hawke said dryly. He started petting Anders' back and sides again, the only parts of him he could reach with Anders clinging to his arms like this. "Love, even the most grueling of lives have a few happy moments in them. They have to or we'd never survive. Happiness is part of life, as is pain, and your life has had more than its fill of pain already."

He gave Anders an emphatic little shake. "You deserve some happiness, you deserve good things. All mages do, and that means you as well. You deserve it, and you can have it, if only you'll stop clinging so hard to your own suffering."

In that moment Anders was almost overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, but then again that might be poor repayment coming from a man who'd just vomited, so he buried himself against Hawke's side instead and placed an open-mouthed kiss on his neck.

Hawke didn't seem to have anything profound to follow that up with, petting Anders' hair and murmuring soothing nonsense. Slowly, gradually, the unaccountable panic that had gripped Anders from the inside for hours - perhaps days - began to fade.

As the panic subsided, there came in its place an uncomfortably building sense of guilt. "What time is it?" he muttered, though he was unwilling to separate from Hawke for long enough to crane his neck around for a clock. "Don't you have to get ready for your... party thing?"

Hawke didn't answer him for a long time, still holding Anders close and running his hand through his hair. He shifted and brought Anders close, burying his nose in Anders' skin and breathing deep. He let the breath out with a sigh. "It can wait a little longer," he said.

Hawke ended up getting to the party only a little late, more due to an unexpected last-minute delay caused by breaking up a mugging in an alley on the way to Ser Marlein's estate. He was met at the door by the steward, checked to make sure he was really on the guest list - given that this party was also a conspiracy, Hawke couldn't really object to that - and ushered into the ballroom. "Messere Garrett Hawke, of the Kirkwall Amells," the steward announced, pausing for a dramatic pose at the top of the stairs. "Champion of Kirkwall."

This was met by a murmur of interest, all activity momentarily dropping off. He put on his best smile and descended the stairs, tugging discreetly at the collar on his Amell house finery as he did. At least there hadn't been much question of what he would have to wear to the party; the outfit was positively dull and restrained compared to some of the other noble fashions in the room, but it was traditional, so he was excused. Better that than some of the monstrosities he saw in circulation below - puffy shorts, ribbon bows, wire collars, two different shades of plaidweave - it was a disaster.

Hawke spent the next hour circulating the ballroom, making contacts, small talk and wondering how on earth anyone had gotten the mistaken impression that he belonged here. He was a farm boy from Lothering, for the Maker's sake; he'd spent most of his life as a scoundrel and a vagrant. Hell, his first year in Kirkwall had been spent smuggling, stealing, shanking, and otherwise generally scoundreling his way up from the Undercity to the Viscount's Keep. Anders might have been the one whose nerves were in pieces about tonight, but Hawke felt like a fish in a champagne fountain.

Still, the same skills which he had honed keeping a straight face to marks or while delivering a barely-veiled insult came in handy here too, and he was able to charm his way around most of the ballroom without incident. He was able to eavesdrop a fair amount, as well; in addition to 'Meredith,' 'Viscount,' 'templar,' and 'mad,' which were by far the most oft-repeated sentiments, his sharp ears also occasionally caught 'dog-lord,' 'refugee,' 'Darktown' and once or twice 'gutter trash.'

Hawke barely repressed a sigh; apparently even the better part of Kirkwall's nobility still wasn't that much better. Or then again, maybe he was expecting too much - just because their political goals aligned didn't mean they were necessarily the sort of people Hawke would want to invite to his Satinalia parties.

It was exhausting work, and Hawke found himself clinging to the increasingly faint hope that Anders would come, after all. He'd left the mage in his sewing room at the Amell estate, promising to get himself cleaned up; Hawke had entreated him to come to the party only if he felt up for it, which Hawke doubted he would. But it would be nice not to be so alone here; to have someone else who found the airs of the nobility as ridiculous as he did, someone to laugh at the bad fashions, someone who would not just smile uncertainty at his jokes but actually keep up and joke back.

A small commotion at the top of the stairway drew his interest; Hawke had mostly been tuning out the announcements of the various guests, but the steward apparently was having some trouble with this one. Hawke looked up with renewed interest, drifting over towards the stairwell to listen in.

Finally the steward reappeared, list clutched in one hand and looking faintly harassed. His gaze kept darting back to the list, as if reassuring himself that he really had read what he thought he'd read; he cleared his throat and announced, "Messere Anders, of Amaranthine... the Darktown Healer."

That caused a buzz of scandal and gossip among the crowd. Hawke had the good sense to throw back his drink and gulp it down; which was just as well because if he'd still been holding it in the next moment, he would have either choked or dropped it out of nerveless hands.

Anders appeared at the top of the stairwell, dramatic as a torch suddenly flaring to life in the dark. It was not a comparison drawn from nothing, either; the deep blacks of his outfit blended against the darkness of the balcony, with the gold leaf decorating his tunic glowing like flame against the blackness. The swirling pattern of gold against black mimicked a swirl of fireflies at dusk, a scattering of sparks rising into the sky from a bonfire, all of it drawing the eye up to Anders' face.

Isabela must have returned to touch up his makeup, or perhaps Anders had done it himself; he looked as sweet-faced as a boy again, although the wicked smirk on his face and the flash of golden eyes disabused any notion of his innocence. He took a moment to slowly scan the ballroom, his eyes lighting on Hawke at the foot of the stairs, and the smirk widened as he began his slow, predatory descent.

One gloved hand trailed along the bannister as he came down, but it was clear that he didn't need the support, even in the boots. Dear Maker, the boots. Hawke had imagined what they would look like on Anders' legs - encasing his feet and calves in a lover's caress, the heels boosting up his already imposing height to an almost ludicrous degree - but it couldn't compare to the reality. Not when half of the appeal was in the way he walked, each step a slow and deliberate strut that said without words that the whole world was his to claim, as soon as he got around to deciding which part of it he favored.

His hips moved with the rhythm of the walk, too, the dark mantle - he had worn the butt-cape, after all, Hawke thought with a near-hysterical giggle - flaring out behind him with each swing of his hips. He was spellbound by that mesmerizing strut, and he wasn't the only one, judging by how quiet the room had gone behind him. The conversation had dropped off to almost nothing, punctuated by the very distinct tinkle of glass breaking on marble.

By the time Anders stepped off the final stair tread - the entire staircase spread out behind him like a cape, a backdrop suitable for this vision of loveliness - Hawke's mouth was dry and his crotch was painfully tight. Anders ran those sharp amber eyes down Hawke's form and back up again, and - given the way his pupils dilated and his smile twisted to something more hungry - didn't miss a thing.

Between Anders' natural height and the heels, he still wasn't exactly at eye level with Hawke, but that just gave him a better view of Anders' chest; all the pale, creamy skin left visible by the deep v-neck collar, the pointed ends trailing suggestively at his waist. The gold accents on the tunic, the gloves, and the belt were just exactly the same shade as his hair, just as Hawke had hoped it would be; he really did glow like a flame, gold and white and blinding heat against the black backdrop. A blaze of light, of hope, against Darktown's despair.

Anders broke Hawke's gaze long enough to sweep over the crowd. "Sorry I'm late," he drawled, voice carrying easily across the ballroom, and that broke the spell. Several of the nobles started forward - Hawke didn't know what they intended, but judging by their expressions, it probably was not to discuss the details of Meredith's coup.

With his head start, Hawke got there first; he snatched up Anders' hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles, the metal accents cold and smooth under his lips, the feel of Anders' pulse hammering through the leather at his wrist. That was enough to prompt him to pull Anders into his arms, stretching up on his tiptoes to capture the apostate in a searing kiss.

It took Hawke several minutes to get over the sensation of his brains melting and trickling out his ears like candlewax; at least, judging by Anders' flush and gasping breath when they broke it off, he wasn't the only one. Hawke wrapped an arm around his neck and drew him close enough to whisper in his ear. "I've changed my mind, love," he murmured.

Anders cocked his head down towards Hawke, so that he didn't have to stretch so high. "About what?" he murmured.

"You're not going to sell this outfit at the pawn shop tomorrow," Hawke said firmly.

An expression of alarm crossed Anders' face, and Hawke caught a very quick flash of blue in his eyes before it vanished. "What? Why -" he started, but Hawke cut him off with another kiss.

"Instead," Hawke continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "we're going to have our own party at the Amell estate, and we're going to auction off every piece of these clothes, with all the proceeds going to charity."

The smile slowly spread across Anders' face again, and Hawke liked it there. "I like the way you think, love," he murmured wryly. He glanced up, surveying the expressions of the noble throng that hovered around the edge of Hawke's bubble of personal space. "Do they get to bid on what's inside the clothes, too?"

"Oh no," Hawke said firmly, wrapping his arm around Anders and turning to the rest of the party. "That's all mine."

~the end.