Title: Self-Destructive & Addictive
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Hawke/Anders (M/M)
Warnings: SPOILERS,
Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. I'm only an obsessive fan.
A/N: I don't have a Beta, so I apologise for any typos or nonsensical ramblings.
This takes place directly after fleeing Kirkwall. Originally this went into more detail regarding Anders' experience in Amaranthine (and how I retconed my headcanon so that he was a blood mage during DA:A in order for this to make sense), but instead I decided to end it on a different note. I wrote this directly after Strength in Weakness, but never refined or posted it, so the style/quality isn't my norm. Ah well. It's also the last thing I'll be working on for a few weeks. Burned myself out a little. Heh.
I- ~ ~ ~ -I
He stood apart from the others, their low but warming fire a fair distance to his back. No longer in earshot, but aside from the crackling of wood and soft rumbling of coastline, there was naught to eavesdrop. Very little had been spoken since their flight from the Gallows, which was understandable to be sure. Anders' presence unnerved them; the awkward silence and wary looks not exactly subtle in their means and messages. Mind you, Hawke was well aware his own decisions worried his companions, if not more so than Anders' inevitable… actions.
Their current camp was rugged, hidden between the jagged rocks of the Wounded Coast.
Far enough away, but never far enough.
He needed… space, time, perhaps a way to change the events of the past couple days. Shit. How about a way to change the past seven years of his ever chaotic and unbelievable life? That would be excellent, really. If the Maker would just get on that right now, he'd kiss the ground and swear to be a good little apostate. Would even visit the Chantry at least once a we-
The Chantry.
That image still haunted him, caused his skin to crawl and mouth to dry. An overwhelming sense of wrongness tugged at his chest, gnawing insistently as it tried to devour the last of his morals and flagging conscience. And even as he desperately fought to push aside that image - to purge it from memory - something told him that even should he live a hundred years it would never leave him. The sheer power that pulsed out across the city, waves of a foreign magic causing hair to stand on end, an oppressive force that weighed heavy in his lungs. The debris - undoubtedly shattering homes and littering city-streets across every district of Kirkwall. There had been no safe haven. Even those outside the Chantry had been caught in the wake of its destruction. Men, women, children; innocent victims, all of them. He dropped his gaze to his palms as nails left near-bloody crescents in rough flesh. His hands were just as stained.
A deep breath, fingers relaxed.
He could still see the city burning along the horizon. Half of the Free Marches could, he supposed; the red-orange glow of fire raging in the streets, smoke bellowing up into the heavens to assault the stars themselves. Not any easy thing to miss by any means. Eyes turned skyward then, but even the stars dared not show themselves this night.
A rustling of leaves behind him, but he didn't bother to turn his head. He knew well who was there. Anders, all things considered, wasn't exactly subtle. Hawke could simply feel him, the way the Fade rolled of him in waves. It had become more pronounced over the years, and he wondered briefly if it was due to Justice's stronger influence, or the intimacy he and Anders shared. Perhaps a bit of both, and wasn't that a terrifying thought? He had asked Merrill about it once, if she could feel it as he could.
She couldn't.
They stood there, listening to nothing but the silence - the beating of hearts and the breathing of chests - for a long while. As time slowly washed over them, an itch began to crawl its way across the back of his neck. A lone bead of sweat on this chill, damp night. It caught along the rough of his skin, clinging desperately, briefly, before following the contour of muscle and vein as it finally slipped free.
Hawke wiped it away as it landed on his collarbone.
"You're a Malificar." It wasn't so much an accusation as it was a statement. Anders' voice was deceptively calm, hiding a mixture of disbelief and disgust in equal measure.
Hawke didn't answer. Didn't even bother to twist his head to face his lover. As far as he was concerned, Anders was in no place to be laying out judgements on anyone right now, or perhaps ever. He simply continued to stare out across the horizon; to watch Kirkwall burn.
Hawke supposed it had been too much to hope that his small display of Blood Magic would go unnoticed during their escape. He had done well to keep it hidden, and considering the years he spent at Anders' side, it was quite the accomplishment that only now had he found out. He clenched his fists once again, releasing a ragged breath, and mentally prepared for the inevitable outburst.
"How long?" Was the next question, still spoken in that cool, uncaring tone. Hawke paused, debating if lying would be the better choice. Somehow, he figured Anders would know the truth, regardless of how well he choose his words.
"Before we met." An honest response, Hawke's tone matching Anders. He turned then, letting grey eyes meet amber for the first time since the Gallows. A chill shot through Hawke's spine, for the eyes he stared into seemed to hold absolutely nothing. It was akin to starring into the void, formless yet encompassing, disturbing yet enticing, and despite how desperately you fight, it would draw you in and never let go.
Consume you, soul and all.
They stayed like that for moments which seemed as ages, Hawke unable to tear his eyes away. An emptiness so vast that even should it consume the world, it would never be sated. It was a familiar blue-white flare that broke the spell, freed him from that terrifying sight, only to be greeted by another.
"After everything we've seen, how can you stand there and tell me you are one of them?" Ander's voice echoed; the very precipice of transformation between him, and the spirit within. His movements were quick, calculated, and in a blink of an eye Hawke found himself closer to wrath Justice than he ever dared desire.
Face-to-face, Hawke's own temper raised to meet the challenge. His nostrils flared as he exhaled, his voice clipped tight as he stood his ground.
"Must it be limited to madmen and monsters?"
"It murdered your mother!" Regret shook Anders to the core as the words left his mouth. Justice receded, eyes dimmed, returning to their natural, soulful state. He calmed, then paled as a plethora of emotions crossed Hawke's face, the least of which was not undiluted rage.
Hawke tensed, stiffened as he debated whether or not a punch to the jaw or a face full of flame would be more appropriate. His blood boiled as he saw red, but it was the face of his mother behind his eyes that calmed him. He suddenly felt sick, as though the weight of the past two days had finally caught up with him. He exhaled slowly through his nose, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. If he could lay down and die right now, he would.
He blinked tersely, seemingly coming back to his right mind.
"Just… leave." He turned from Anders then, head low as he gathered his thoughts, eyes once again scanning the horizon. His voice was tired and for the first time in his life, he felt far older than he was.
An arm wrapping around his waist was unexpected, and unwanted.
"I said-"
"For all the good intentions, it's dangerous, love. Self-destructive. Addictive." Here Anders paused, voice soft, distant as he recalled memories of a life seemingly not his own, at least, not anymore.
Like loving you?
A fleeting thought, unbidden, and one Hawke would never dare voice. Not for the fear of Anders' reaction, but for the fear of finally acknowledging what he'd tried so hard to deny.