Author's Note: The term "trade" refers to a straight, "normal" man who is willing to have sex with another man (paid or not) but not on the receiving end. To play the "woman's role" in such an encounter is to lose social status and be lowered to a woman's level, as many fairies were in this time period.

There are probably a lot of explanations I should do for the way people saw gender roles in this time period, but I won't since this is not a social history lesson (and I doubt many people really care, haha). If you have any questions, I'd be more than happy to clarify things, however.

Two

Hanged Man

September 26, 2:00 AM

Varric herded the last of his customers out the door—apart from those few who had paid for a night with one of the prostitutes. Isabela had been offered money from nearly every man there, but had turned them all down in the end, choosing instead to spend most of her time in Fenris's company. The pair were seated at a table in the far corner, one of Isabela's long, shapely legs resting across the officer's lap. Garret had never seen the pair do anything more than talk and occasionally touch one another—such as Izzie was doing right now—but he suspected that there was more to his friend's game than just buttering the officer up to keep their tavern's illicit business under wraps.

Anders had not reappeared. Garret searched endlessly for the man, even moving through the crowd to serve drinks in the hopes that he might see the beautiful fairy again. But he was nowhere to be found and for reasons that Garret couldn't explain, the fact made his heart heavy.

"Well, apart from your little slip-up in the beginning, you did good." Varric was watching him from across the room, amber eyes stern and yet not angry. "Care to explain just what happened?"

"Nothing, ser. I just…lost myself for a second."

"Try not to let it happen again, Hawke. These people are some of the most affluent customers I have. I don't want them heading down the street to another bar."

"Of course, ser."

Varric nodded at him one last time before heading up the stairs to his own suite. The few remaining prostitutes who had chosen not to take a job that night dispersed to their rooms, tired and buzzed. Norah and another young woman by the name of Lily stayed to help him clean the place up, putting empty glasses and plates behind the bar for the clean-up crew to take care of come morning. The Hanged Man didn't open for business until the early evening hours and so Varric had hired a group of young waifs to clean the place during the day, which worked out well for Garret most nights.

This night, though, he would have gladly stayed and washed every dish and table. Going home—alone—did not seem the most favorable option—especially if it meant facing his brother, who had made his opinion on Garret's illegal activities clearly known. He didn't have the heart or energy to argue right now and considered finding an inn to spend the night in peace.

"Good night ladies," he said to the young women as he passed. "Good night, Izzie! And you, messere."

Fenris and Isabela waved to him from their table; Varric trusted the pair enough to stay as long as they wished and some nights they did just that.

"Walk safe, Hawke," Aveline advised from the door, green eyes stern and yet warm at the same time.

"Don't worry about me, Aveline. I know where the gangs like to frequent around these parts." I used to be one of them, he finished silently.

"Doesn't hurt to walk safe all the same."

Garret smiled at her. "Of course. The same to you. Good night."

"Good night."

Garret exited the tavern and turned left down the street, allowing his feet to lead him by instinct. Downtown New York boasted several less-seedy inns and Garret had had many occasions to seek shelter at those establishments, so he knew where he was going. With intuition leading the way, his mind was free to process the events of the night and the cloaked meaning beneath Anders's words.

Surely Isabela must have been right: the fairy was a prostitute. Who else would be so open with questions that would inevitably lead to a sexual nature? But for some reason, the thought of that made Garret sad—and a bit angry. It was sort of the same way he viewed Isabela and her clients every time she led one by the hand up that long stairwell. She was his dear friend and it made him sick that she was forced to make a living in such a way.

Isabela had told him once about her past one night when the tavern had been virtually empty and they both had been drinking some form of heavy liquor. She had been married to an affluent business man with much notoriety in the upper-middle-class society. He had courted her as a true gentleman: lavishing her with fine gifts and praises; always holding the coach door open and offering his coat when the weather turned bad. But the moment she had agreed to marry him, her life had become a nightmare.

No longer was her lover a gentle soul who spoke softly in the night; the gentleman was gone and in his place was a monster who took delight in beating her when the mood struck him. Isabela had lived for five years in constant fear and pain, wishing that she could kill herself and yet knowing that her husband always had eyes watching her around the house. The last she had said was that he had died one day quite suddenly and because she had borne him no children, his family had abandoned her to the streets with a single dress and pair of shoes to her name. How she had come to her current profession truly didn't take much imagination to figure out.

The thought that this Anders might have met similar circumstances—though his expensive clothing spoke otherwise—made Garret's heart ache. If only he hadn't been a fool; if only he had answered the question, spoke his heart's deepest desires; if only…

"Yer a purdy li'le fag, aintcha?"

Garret could recognize a tone like that in the middle of a crowded room. He had run with a street gang in New York's undercity for much of his young life and though Garret like to think that he had been reformed, it was hard to part oneself from the full brunt of that existence. His first thought was to walk away—gangs had to eat, too, after all—

"I certainly like to think so. Please, ser, I wish you wouldn't muss my coat. It was a gift."

—But of course, it just had to be that voice, didn't it? The same voice he had waited to hear since it had asked the very question that had pierced his heart's desires. His body was completely taken over by instinct now as his muscles relaxed and his footsteps softened to a mere whisper of a sound. The voices were coming from an alley to his left…

"A gift?" a second rough voice scoffed. "How's about you gift it t'us?"

"I would be happy to, ser, if it didn't have so much sentimental value. Surely you understand?"

"Gawd, but you sure do talk purdy, dontcha? Mayhaps we put that mouth to better use?"

Garret was at the corner of the building now; when he peered around the edge of the wall, he could make out the shadowy figures of several tough-looking hoods surrounding the unmistakable form of Anders who had his back to the wall.

"Hmm, I'm afraid I can't indulge you, ser. I have an appointment I must keep—"

Garret watched as one of the hoods slapped Anders across the face, effectively silencing the fairy. After that, the only thing he saw was red.

Without a sound, the big German swept up behind the hoods. He grabbed two by the backs of their collars and slammed their heads together, pausing only long enough to step over their slumped bodies as he descended on the remaining three. The first boy he reached was still caught in shock and fell easily beneath a hard right-hook; the last two had had enough time to overcome surprise and draw their switchblades.

Muscles honed by years of knife-fights and late-night smuggling, Garret easily dodged clumsy stabs and managed to grab one of the hoods by his hair, hoisting him into the air. The boy screamed in pain as great tufts of his hair were pulled out by the root—only to be silenced as he was flung into the brick wall. There was a single moment that Garret stood undefended and the remaining boy eagerly took the opening, driving his knife home in the meaty muscles of the young man's forearm. Garret took the hood off-guard by stepping into the stab and delivering a vicious uppercut with his left arm that sent the boy flying several feet away.

Garret cast about him, teeth bared in an animalistic snarl. Soft hands touched his wounded arm and he started to turn on what instinct told him was another attacker—only to realize it was just Anders. Honey-colored eyes looked up at him with a mixture of gratitude and worry, slender fingers grasping his right forearm gently around the knife that still protruded from it. Bit by bit, Garret forced his body to relax which made the adrenaline rush cool back down and thus the pain in his arm to hit him full force.

"A-Are you all right?" Garret asked sheepishly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm.

"I'm fine. Please, allow me to take you to my apartment. I have some bandages and salves that should heal this right up."

"I…"

"Please? It's the least I can do."

From the moment he had first looked into those eyes, Garret knew he would never be able to say no.

Anders lived in a tenement building not too far away from the Hanged Man. Most of the other residents were still asleep, but there were a few other fairies milling about the entrance. They perked up when the pair approached and Garret realized that they were all staring at him. A couple of them started forward but at a firm gesture from Anders stopped in their tracks. Even when the pair passed right in front of them, they remained still, though Garret did hear one mutter to his friends:

"Lucky bastard always gets the best trade."

Garret blushed furiously, but found it hard to dispute the comment. After all, a part of him desired the blonde fairy in the same way that he had once desired Isabela. It was a frustrating side of him; compounded with his increasing light-headedness, there was no way he could untangle the mental puzzle right now.

Thankfully, Anders lived on the second floor. But even that one flight of stairs was rough; Garret found his breath beginning to grow more and more ragged and his vision was turning dark around the edges. At some point, Anders had fallen back to walk beside him—one of the man's arms slung over the fairy's rather broad shoulders—though Garret barely noticed. If he had, he might have noticed the floral scent in Anders's hair or the warmth of his body pressed against his side…

Anders had wrapped his handkerchief around Garret's arm in an attempt to stem the flow of blood and keep the knife in place so it wouldn't cause any further damage. The white cloth would forever be stained red, and for some reason Garret found himself mourning that fact. It had been such a pretty handkerchief: soft and made of finely woven cotton. And he had ruined it…

"Garret, focus on me, okay? Why don't you tell me about your family?"

"Huh…what?" The world was really fuzzy. Why was everything so blurry?

"What's your mom's name?"

"L-Leandra…"

"Good. Tell me about her." Anders's voice was soothing as he led Garret to a seat at a small dinner table. Once the man was stationary, Anders moved away for a moment to gather his first aid kit. "Tell me about Leandra, Garret."

"She's…native born…moved to…Munich with…my dad…"

"Oh? And why did you move back?"

"T-the great war…Germany…mess…"

Anders gathered a handful of white cloth and held it just above the knife. "Where are your parents now?" He swiftly pulled the blade free and pressed the cloth to the oozing wound. Garret had opened his mouth to answer, but the only sound that escaped was a groan.

"I know," Anders crooned as he applied pressure, "just keep talking to me, Garret. Where are your parents now?"

"M-mom…lives in midtown…next to the…old theater…"

Anders lifted the cloth, reaching for a bottle of ointment with his free hand. "And your father?"

"Dead…sister too…"

Garret was fading quickly now; he mumbled a few incoherent words as his eyes rolled back into his head. Anders allowed him to drift off as he rubbed the ointment into his wound before binding it with some clean bandages. The worst was over and the man would live, though it was more than likely he would always carry the scar from this night. Anders had hoped to keep him awake long enough so that Garret would be able to at least half-stumble to the bed, but apparently the blood-loss—in addition to a long night and the fact that it was quite early—had caught up to him.

Anders shrugged Garret's uninjured arm over his shoulders and took as much of the man's weight as he could manage onto his back. It was slow-going, but Anders managed to stagger the short distance across the room to his small bed and gently lower his passenger down onto the worn sheets. Garret immediately rolled onto his side, cheek buried in the thin pillows; within moments, he was snoring softly.

Looking down at the slumbering young man, Anders found that he was smiling. Sleep softened the lines of Garret's face, almost making him look like an adolescent rather than the twenty-something Anders knew he had to be. Well, he would have looked like an adolescent without the beard. The man's dark brown hair was terribly mussed and yet it was a charming look for him; gently, Anders ran his fingers through the silky strands as he perched on the bed beside Garret.

The night had certainly brought numerous, pleasant surprises—and almost one not-so-pleasant surprise. When his trade friends had invited him out for a drink, Anders had jumped at the chance. It wasn't too difficult to find liquor despite the Prohibition, but the only way a fairy would be able to gain admittance to the nicer taverns in New York was usually if he was in the company of "normal" men. Anders had been searching for an excuse to dress up nice and this had proven the perfect opportunity.

He had expected to meet someone, even if it was just another trade looking for a quick tumble. What Anders hadn't expected was to find a man like Garret who was obviously attracted to him and yet resisted. The challenge he presented had proved too much for Anders and he had pursued him. He hadn't planned on getting mugged, but then that was part of the danger of walking the streets alone at night. Anders probably could have handled the hoods on his own but he was grateful for Garret's timely intervention—even if it had led to the man's current state.

Reluctantly, Anders moved away from the bed so that he could exchange his nice clothes for a simple tunic and trousers. His apartment was small, but he liked to think of it as "cozy" rather than "suffocating." He didn't have many clothes—especially nice clothes—but Anders made do well enough with what he did have.

The past decade had been a whirlwind for the city. Political strife ran rampant; labor unions were springing up all around in response to the plight of the working class; immigrants continued to pour in, hungry and destitute, soaking up whatever meager work they could find; and men like Anders—fairies like Anders—were beginning to fall under harsher scrutiny. The Great War had helped them, in a way, with its propaganda about the "venereal breeding ground" known as "woman" which made authorities more paranoid about regular prostitutes than the young men who loitered within their ranks. But that wouldn't last forever and though Anders never had trouble finding work, several of his friends were quickly going broke.

Things had been rough all over, but Anders soldiered on as he always did. From the day he had arrived in the city, Anders had jumped into events with whole-hearted determination. New York might not be the most conducive locale for the struggling working class (as far as finding work that paid more than a half-dollar a week), but it was certainly the perfect city for social expression. The fairy subculture Anders had found here was intoxicating; not everything about it was grand, but the promise of self-expression was enough in itself. Besides, that subculture had brought him to Karl—

No. Anders stopped that line of thought abruptly. Now was not the time to be thinking of such things—especially when there was a handsome young man sleeping in his bed.

When Anders turned around, his breath caught in his throat. Garret had shifted at some point and now lay on his back, one leg hanging off the side of bed and one arm crossed over his broad chest. His breathing was even and smooth, and from this angle he looked even younger than he had before. Anders approached the bed slowly as if he were facing a skittish dog in the streets and didn't want to scare it away. He had seen his fair share of handsome men, but truly Garret was something special.

The young bartender wasn't good-looking in the conventional sense; he was too dark for that, too rough-looking. But there was something about him that drew Anders closer, like a moth hypnotized by an open flame. He wanted nothing more than to cup that grizzled face in his hands and feel those chapped lips against his own…to feel safe in the curve of those warm arms.

Above all, Anders wanted to possess the young man. But that was the wildest of fantasies; there were few men in Garret's position who would risk their social status by agreeing to such an arrangement. If Anders wanted him at all, he would have to accept that fact.

Garret shifted and Anders halted, barely two steps away from the bed. The young man's eyes fluttered open and he groaned. Anders quickly moved back to his small kitchen and the first aid kit that was still sitting on the table, pulling out a medium-sized bottle that carried some oily concoction. He poured a small amount into a cup and carried it back to the bed where Garret was slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings.

"Hnn…w-wha…what happened?" Garret vaguely remembered following Anders home, but after that his memories were blurred.

"Here, drink this." Anders offered him the cup. Garret sniffed its contents and his nose wrinkled; he looked up at the fairy with a suspicious glint in his golden eyes.

"It'll help ease the ache in your head," Anders assured him with a small smile.

Still Garret looked unconvinced; Anders sighed. "If I had wanted to do something to you, I would have done it while you were unconscious. I promise you, Garret, that nothing happened and that the potion is meant only to benefit."

The young man flushed a bit, muttering an apology before quickly downing the thick, oily concoction. He gagged a bit as it slid sluggishly down his throat, coating his mouth with the strange texture and somewhat bitter taste. A second cup was offered to him, this one full of diluted wine. Garret eagerly downed the drink; it didn't get the taste of the potion completely out of his mouth, but things certainly tasted better now.

Within moments, the throbbing ache in his skull began to ebb. As the pain faded, Garret found that he finally had control over his mind again and he took a moment to survey the Anders's cramped apartment. It was all one room with one small window on the far wall that let in a slight breeze. A chamber pot in one dark corner and a kitchen that bore only a couple of cupboards that Garret assumed were probably empty. Besides the tiny dinner table and its lone, dilapidated chair, the bed he was lying in was the only other piece of furniture.

Even mother's house is better than this, he thought to himself, feeling a bit ashamed that he had ever thought to complain of the way his family lived. They weren't rich by any means, but neither were they quite this poor.

"It's not much," Anders remarked, as if reading his mind, "but a home is a home. It's more than many have."

"I—I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it. There's no need to apologize." Anders smiled and Garret felt all of his nervous anxiety float away. He could lose himself in that smile; he wanted to lose himself in that smile.

"So…uh…thank you—" Garret lifted his bandaged arm—"for this."

"It was the least I could do since you got the wound on my account. Allow me to thank you properly for your timely rescue: will you join me for some breakfast?"

"What time is it?"

"Oh, I'd say about five or so."

"There aren't many places open this early…"

Anders chuckled; Garret felt his cheeks burn. "No, I meant that I will cook you something. I don't have much, but I know my way around a kitchen."

"You don't have to—" But Anders wasn't paying any attention to him as he turned and headed towards the kitchen. Garret swung his legs over the side of the bed, head turned so he could watch the fairy cook. Anders moved with effortless grace and Garret found that he was enchanted by the elegant way the man worked his hands, reaching and grasping and twisting with certain flair…

At home, he was often the one helping mother cook their meals and Garret found that he felt quite foolish sitting on the bed while someone else did all the work for him. He stood up—taking a moment until the spinning in his head stopped—and moved across the room to stand beside the fairy. Anders looked up at him, surprise written clearly across his fine-boned features. Garret offered a lop-sided smile.

"What can I do?"

"You can go sit back down."

Garret reached across the man—his arm brushing Anders's chest just barely—to grasp the bowl and spoon Anders had brought down from the cupboard. When it was positioned in front of him, he looked down the few inches into those honey-colored eyes:

"What can I do?"

Anders smiled. "There are some eggs in the cabinet beneath you. I think four should be enough."

They worked in silence, Garret mixing the eggs in his bowl while Anders chopped at a small side of ham. It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but neither was the silence completely companionable. Garret could barely fight back the blush burning at his cheeks or the suggestive thoughts that kept creeping through his mind every time Anders's arm or leg brushed against his. He had the proper state of mind to consider his position now, but Garret was almost afraid of the answers he would find if he tried.

It didn't take long before Anders shooed Garret to the table while he finished cooking. Garret reluctantly sunk down into the lone chair, rubbing absently at the bandage covering his wounded arm. It was surprising how little the knife-wound hurt; whatever Anders had done, it was definitely working. The only problem was that the space beneath the bandages was itchy and Garret found that he couldn't help but start scratching at it.

"Stop that," Anders commanded as he turned around, easily balancing a plate in each hand. Garret immediately stopped pestering the bandage, smiling like a sheepish child. He thanked Anders as the man placed one of the plates in front of him; a moment later, a fork joined it. Garret started to stand up—intending to allow Anders to sit in his own chair—but the fairy quickly waved him back down.

"No, no. The chair is yours. Please, just eat."

The meal was simple enough: eggs and ham with a sprinkling of some spice Garret couldn't name. Garret Hawke had never been the type to worry about his manners, but as he watched Anders eat—delicate little bites and movements that wasted nothing—he suddenly felt self-conscious. He treated his fork like a piece of fine porcelain, his own movements slow and deliberate as he dipped its tined ends into the egg mixture and lifted a tiny bite to his lips. Just as delicately, he opened his mouth and levered the fork into his mouth—where an explosion of flavor burst across his taste buds. And that was all it took for his manners to disappear; lost to single-minded hunger, Garret lifted the plate to his mouth and began pouring the food down his throat, barely pausing to chew.

Anders watched him with amusement glowing in his eyes. It had taken a lot of willpower to keep from laughing when Garret had begun eating; a soft chuckle escaped his throat when the young man had finally given up the pretense. When Garret finished his plate—Anders had to lower his face when the young man began actually licking it clean, afraid to offend him with the laughter he barely kept contained—he looked despondent for a moment, as if believing that if he stared at the plate long enough, more would appear. Anders placed his own plate in front of him, its meal only partly eaten.

"Are you sure?" Garret asked, hesitating.

"I'm sure."

Garret beamed at him like a child who had just been told that "yes, you can have the toy" and finished off Anders's plate in the same manner he had polished off his own. Anders was forced to press a palm to his mouth as he began giggling; it was truly a queer sight to see such a big man acting like this. Garret looked up at him while in mid-lick of the plate. As if finally realizing the way he was behaving, a red flush burned a path across the young man's cheeks and he lowered the plate to the table, abashed.

"Thank you for the meal," Garret mumbled, not looking up at his host. "I apologize for my behavior."

"Please, there's no need for you to apologize," Anders said in between chuckles. "I'm happy that you enjoyed the food. It always makes me feel good to see my cooking so well appreciated."

Garret looked up and offered a crooked smile. "You're a wonderful cook. Just don't tell my mother that I behaved this way. She'd be liable to skin me."

"Is that so? Hmm…" Anders tapped one elegant finger against his chin as he rounded the table. "Well, that won't do. I like your skin right where it is." He was standing right in front of Garret now; boldly, he reached out with one hand to cup the young man's bearded cheek.

Garret knew that his entire face was red now, the heat surely stemming from that scorching palm. Instinct told him to pull the fairy down into his lap and ravish him, but he didn't—couldn't. It wasn't the fact that he was afraid anyone would frown upon the action—for it was quite common for men to take their pleasures in any way they could; fairies were just another form of woman, so long as they remained the woman. No, it wasn't that. Looking up at Anders, Garret saw hints of Isabela and the other girls who worked at the Hanged Man. He didn't want to use this man like that, just as he had never used any of the prostitutes after that first tumble with Isabela.

For some reason Garret couldn't explain, he wanted more from this man…and yet he was too afraid to ask for it; to reach out for it; to claim it.

Garret stood quickly, knocking over his chair in the process as he stumbled back and away from Anders's touch. He knew he looked like a fool, but it didn't matter. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his pants and the only thing Garret wanted at that moment was to run away before he did something he knew he would regret.

"T-T-Thank you, again, f-for everything. I-I need to…go."

He made it to the door before a light touch on his left bicep stopped him in his tracks. Gulping past the lump of fear in this throat, Garret looked over his shoulder to where Anders stood, unrelenting gaze smoldering with such intensity. The young man's cock twitched under that look and vaguely he wondered how he still had the willpower now to turn around and claim what he so desired.

"Don't leave, Garret," Anders murmured, moving closer so that his front was pressed against the young man's side; Garret felt a shudder run through him when he realized that Anders's cock was pressed against his hip and was just as hard as his own. "You don't have to leave."

"I…Anders, I can't…"