Anders slept for several hours. At some point in the evening, he half-woke, dazed and disoriented, to find that Dorian was carefully and gently unlacing his boots. Anders had just enough awareness to be embarrassed that he'd sprawled upon Dorian's bed still booted, but his murmured attempt to apologise was waved away with a smile by the Tevinter Altus. Anders' head still ached abominably, though at least it no longer felt like someone was trying to drive shards of fire into his skull through his right eye and out the other side any more.

Dorian had brought food, but Anders waved it away. With Dorian's help he was able to slip out of his tunic though he wouldn't let the other man remove his shirt. Dorian tucked him up in bed and handed him another elfroot potion before Anders slipped into sleep once more.

The second time he woke, the fire had burned low; in the glow of the embers, he could make out Dorian asleep in a chair beside the bed. The blanket he'd tugged over himself had slipped down from his bare left shoulder and his head rested against the side wing of the high-backed chair. Anders felt guilty for having deprived the Altus of his bed. His head was still aching, but he felt coherent enough now to draw a little on his magic and drive away the last of the pain. It took more concentration than it usually would, and he felt tired and drained afterwards in the post-ictal aftermath of the migraine. He sank back into sleep, and didn't awaken again until fairly late the next morning.

Dorian was leaning over his desk, writing, but as Anders stirred he straightened and glanced over at him.

"Ah, awake at last, I see!" smiled the Altus. "Feeling better I trust?"

"Much," agreed Anders. "I'm sorry to have just staggered in like that and then stolen your bed last night."

"Oh, think nothing of it," said Dorian airily, waving Anders' apology away. "You were hardly in any fit state to make it back to your own rooms - though I should warn you we are doubtless going to occasion gossip if you're seen leaving mine. People do so love to jump to conclusions, and I hardly think you need my reputation tarnishing your own." He smiled wryly, and Anders wondered what Dorian would say if he knew who it really was he'd given his bed up to last night. Whatever Dorian's reputation, he doubted it could be worse than his own.

"No doubt at the very least Mother Giselle would have something to say on the matter, and I somehow doubt the good Commander would approve either," went on Dorian as he turned away to a tray covered in a white cloth. "Now, I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of fetching breakfast for us both whilst you were sleeping. Your appetite has returned, I trust? You didn't seem keen on the idea of food last night."

"I didn't think it likely to stay down," nodded Anders as he sat up. Dorian brought the tray over to the bed and set it down upon the coverlet between them as he perched upon the edge of the bed with one leg tucked up beneath himself. He pulled away the cloth to reveal a pile of small pastries and hot sweet bread rolls as well as a pot of coffee.

"I wasn't sure what you prefer in the way of breakfast, but I thought perhaps this might be light enough not to upset your stomach if it were still feeling sensitive this morning," said Dorian as he split open a steaming bread roll and slathered it with butter. "I fetched a couple more elfroot potions in case they were needed; they're on the table next to you."

Anders glanced at the bedside table at the two potions, then turned to the pot of coffee and poured himself a mug. "I'm much better this morning, thank you," he replied. "I woke up during the night and it had faded enough I could heal the last myself and then sleep off the after effects."

"What a useful skill," observed Dorian. "Though I'd keep quiet about that talent if I were you or everyone will be after hangover cures every time the Chargers come back from a successful patrol - I understand they party pretty hard." He winked as he helped himself to coffee. "Though I dare say that Inquisitor Trevelyan has much more important things to attend to than relieving the headaches of those poor fools that the Iron Bull drinks under the table."

Anders laughed and reached for a pastry. "You don't ever join them over at the Herald's Rest then?"

"Occasionally," allowed Dorian. "The beer is atrocious and yet so very drinkable - which is more than can be said for the wine. I'm sure they must keep the good stuff hidden away and only serve the rat's-piss to me."

"Maybe I should come with you one evening. I doubt they'd serve rat's-piss to the Inquisitor - and seeing as they've insisted on giving this title to me, the least I can do is make sure my advisors get decent wine to drink," mused Anders. He shook his head at the thought of what Isabela would say at the idea of him using his position to get drinks for Dorian in the tavern. Likely cheer him on all the way, he reflected.

Dorian laughed. "I should take you up on that! The thought of the expression on Mother Giselle's face at the idea of her precious Herald of Andraste slumming it in the tavern with the despised Tevinter Magister is just too delicious. You should come if only for that reason alone!"

"She really hates you that much?" said Anders before sipping his coffee. "Oh, Maker, this hits the spot," he added thankfully. He felt ever so slightly spaced out; a last lingering effect following the migraine, he knew. He hoped it would clear up before the war room meeting later on; hopefully the coffee would help there.

"Glad to hear it," said Dorian. "You had me worried last night. I was in two minds whether I should fetch Solas or someone else. I don't panic easily, but you seemed rather ill yesterday afternoon. If you hadn't asked me to stay..."

"You stayed beside me all the while?" said Anders, a little surprised, as he set his cup down on the bedside table.

"I was worried about you," repeated Dorian. "Besides, when a handsome man falls into my bed, I'm hardly one to walk away." He gave Anders a wink.

Anders paused as he reached for another pastry and glanced up at Dorian, startled; a stray lock of hair fell in his eyes. Before he could brush it out of the way, Dorian had leaned forward and gently swept it aside with a forefinger then tucked it back behind Anders' ear, his grey eyes steadily holding Anders' gaze as he then traced his fingertips lightly down the side of his face. Anders found he was holding his breath as Dorian leaned in closer.

"There's a crumb on your lip," murmured the Altus as he leaned in closer; sliding his fingers to Anders' chin, he swept his thumb across Anders' bottom lip even as he tilted the blond apostate's face up towards him. His breath was sweet as it ghosted over his face, and Anders closed his eyes reflexively.

Dorian's fingers slid into his hair and Anders felt him lean in closer; his breath tickled Anders' ear, and then the Altus murmured, "Breathe."

Anders drew in breath with a sharp gasp, and Dorian chuckled as he turned his face a little; and then he kissed Anders.

Maybe it was the post-migraine dazedness, but for one reason or another it took Anders a moment to realise just what was going on - and in that moment, he found himself reacting instinctively, closing his eyes and parting his lips with a little moan as Dorian slid his hand around to cup the back of his head, supporting him gently as he explored Anders' mouth with a gentle yet insistent tongue.

"Maybe we'll give them something to gossip about yet, hmm?" suggested Dorian a little breathlessly when he finally pulled away from Anders' lips. He smiled, then leaned in again, but this time Anders lifted his hands to press them against the Altus' shoulders, halting him.

"Wait - please," he said, gasping a little for breath. "I'm - I'm sorry, I can't do this." He dropped his gaze to the coverlet of the bed, feeling his cheeks grow hot with shame.

Dorian sat back with a sharp annoyed exhalation. "I don't understand," he said. "I thought -"

"I know, and for that I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen," said Anders.

Dorian frowned, then got to his feet and turned away, starting to slowly pace. "Damn it, Trevelyan, I don't understand you. You blow hot and cold. I honestly don't know where I stand with you."

"Please try to understand - it's not that I don't want to - I do, Maker help me, I honestly do - but I can't," pleaded Anders. He felt 'd told the truth; he did want to.

He realised he couldn't keep up the pretense any more. Coming so soon after Vivienne had finally admitted she'd known who he was pretty much all along, the thought of keeping Dorian in the dark any longer was intolerable, and he couldn't let this continue.

"Understand?" Dorian laughed disbelievingly. "Trevelyan, I -"

"My name's not Trevelyan," said Anders in a low voice. "I've never set foot in Ostwick, and almost everything you thought you knew about me is a lie. And I'm sorry for it, and I wish I'd told you from the beginning and to the Void with whatever Cullen and the others think." He drew his knees up beneath the covers as he hugged himself, hunching over. He couldn't bear to look at Dorian for fear of what he'd see there.

Dorian turned and stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" he said slowly.

"I'm not Trevelyan," repeated Anders. He stared at the coverlet over his knees; after a few minutes of silence, the tension in the air became almost unbearable, and he lifted his head slowly, just enough to stare at the Altus from behind the tousled blond hair that fell in his face. Dorian was still staring at him. Anders swallowed hard.

"My name is Anders."

Dorian stared at him, and slowly the frown gave way to dawning realisation. "You mean the Anders?"

"The one who destroyed the Kirkwall chantry. Yes, that was me," nodded Anders.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead? You're rather lively for a corpse," remarked Dorian as he folded his arms and cocked his head to one side, lifting one hand to smooth his moustache.

"I got better," quipped Anders, the merest ghost of a smile upon his lips, unable to resist the small jest.

"The scars," said Dorian. "The ones I saw on your chest when you awoke after Haven."

Anders nodded. "I should have died. But I didn't."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Dorian.

"I wanted to tell you before. Back in Haven," said Anders.

"But none of the others would let you because they didn't trust me," Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "What's changed? Why tell me now?"

"Because you deserve to know why I - why I can't do this," said Anders miserably. "Why I keep pushing you away. And because - because I'm sick of living a lie, of being someone I'm not. I'm no Herald of Andraste - I'm a murderer, why would Andraste pick someone like me? But I've seen the looks on their faces - they think I'm going to save everyone, that I have all the answers, that I'm going to beat Corypheus and -"

His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands. "And I'm scared, and lonely, and you looked after me and I've felt so guilty for deceiving you, and - and-" He hiccuped, and suddenly realised he was crying. Maker, he was a mess. He should have known better. He always felt so raw and vulnerable after a migraine and his defenses were stripped away, compounded by the fact that yes, damn it, he was attracted to Dorian - far more than was prudent. And now his nose was running, and he couldn't stop the sobs that were wracking his body, and if he wasn't careful he was going to land himself with a blinding headache again, and then he'd miss the war room council and Cullen would come looking for him and -

A warm hand came to rest reassuringly on his shoulder; it squeezed lightly as the mattress dipped slightly right next to him, and then there was an arm around his shoulders and Dorian was offering him a handkerchief. He'd removed the tray whilst Anders was preoccupied, and now he was regarding Anders with eyes that were gentle with friendly concern.

"Were you afraid I'd turn away from you when I finally found out who you were? Anders, do you really think we hadn't heard of you up in Tevinter? Trust me, it would take far more than blowing up a Southern chantry to put me off you. I've become rather fond of you, in my own way. Is that what this is all about?" said Dorian.

"I've killed hundreds," said Anders, hunching in on himself. "Innocent people. The Mage-Templar War was all my fault."

"You don't seem proud of it, which I'd say is a good thing," said Dorian gently. "I've heard something of what went on in Kirkwall, and I've read that 'Tale of the Champion' book that Varric wrote; was it an accurate portrayal of events?"

"Mostly," Anders sniffed. "There's a lot he left out - a lot you don't know."

"Then maybe you should start at the beginning?" suggested Dorian, giving Anders' shoulders a gentle squeeze.

Anders stared into Dorian's eyes, and after a moment he nodded hesitantly. "Alright," he said quietly.

He told Dorian everything. He owed him that much.