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A first kiss is a singular, magical thing, and that’s without the actual, literal magic that is Anders, so Hawke never needed to mark theirs on a calendar or write it into a diary. They had a ledger of sorts in Gamlen’s hovel, but it was shared amongst them, a public record of jobs and silvers, how much of this and that for food and rent, and as much fun as it would have been to gross out their uncle, the Hawkes had neither ink nor parchment to spare for stories - but Varric had that well in hand, anyhow.
The Kiss sprawled across two pages of The Tale of the Champion; it was filled with passion and fury and possibly a flash of spirit fire, redolent with adjectives and illuminations neither of them posed for. Varric had the wrong kiss though; they didn’t have their first in a darktown clinic in front of spectators, because Hawke remembers it well, hoards the memory like dragons with jewels, and it’s along the lines of this:
They’d been left for lost in the dank and the deep and Bertrand had fucked off with their evil, ancient, probably also Tevinter, artifact worth its weight in cursed lyrium.
Hawke was just about to starve to death, and Anders was busy being a shivery, babbling mess huddled in a corner up against some rubble - why didn’t he say anything about being claustrophobic, the idiot - and Hawke had decided, enough was enough, and had crawled over their gear and their bedrolls, what food they still possessed, cornered Anders in his corner and laid one on him, because dear Maker a person only lived once.
As far as dying wishes go, it appeared at the time that they had the same one.
There was nothing down here to see with except by veins of maddening lyrium and Anders’ stubble had firmly grown towards this side of beard, but their mouths fitted together like a surprise. It occurred to Hawke then that it’s a crime that they hadn’t been kissing all along; a sin that they hadn’t kissed pressed up against the Hanged Man, in a dingy alley in lowtown, stealing moments between the pews as they turned in work at the chantry, scandalising the sisters - giving them something else to gossip about.
Anders had pulled back after a full minute with a last scrape of his teeth that tasted of desperation and all the lonely nights in the dark, the walls pressing in. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Fuck should,” Hawke had said then, diving in for another.
That could easily have been their last kiss, all things considered.
After the kiss that wasn’t their first kiss, they proceed to have the most on and off relationship in the history of Thedas while living in the same house.
In the midst of the ongoing crisis that is Kirkwall, they have their own continuous crises; every time Anders walks out the door Hawke keeps thinking: this could be our last kiss, these could be the last words we say to each other, best make it good - snappy. And they must both be thinking it, because they always make up for the fights with the best ‘last’ kisses and forget what they were fighting about in the first place.
Anders gifts Hawke a manifesto and carves for Hawke a Tevinter Chantry amulet out of dragonbone to match his own, and Hawke manifests their love by filling Anders’ wish list, even when the wish list included bags of raven feathers, crystalised piss, and wyvern shit - it’s the most ludicrous thing.
Varric and Hawke treat it like an inside joke and laugh about it over ale, picking sewers out of their boots with rusty daggers - until the chantry blows up.
Hawke supposes life’s been good in Kirkwall until the boyfriend expects to be stabbed in the back, and Hawke to be quick about it.
“If you’d told me, we could have egged the place,” Hawke crouches in front of that ridiculous crate, Anders sitting on it with that exceedingly tall dark and handsome coat looking tortured and sexy and his eyebrows creasing together into a knot even Hawke can’t unravel with their usual lack of regard for tact.
The Anders from seven years ago may have said That would require far too many eggs, there are starving Fereldens in darktown, or Are we talking wyvern eggs, because hatching a hundred acid-spitting wyverns in the chantry sounds great, but there are too many years between then and now.
Now, when Anders opens his mouth, it is to say, “Let’s just get this over with.”
Shrugging, Hawke says, “Alright,” before tugging Anders down by his high, tight, well-fitted collar and dragging him down for a kiss.
It tastes a lot like their first, filled with desperation and lonely nights from the past year on their diverging paths, each lost in their sphere of disasters, keeping secrets, but Anders must have had something he thought was a last meal; he tastes like wine and fresh fruit too, the lingering hint of sugar Hawke licks from the corner of his mouth.
“I’m going to go blow up the templar hall. And unlike some selfish people, I’m going to ask if you want in,” Hawke says, pulling Anders up by the bracer, watching a series of expressions that hasn’t been there for eons flash over his face - hope, surprise, the yearning for all the things he didn’t dare dream of. “You want in?”
Rebellions eat themselves if the leader sticks around, so Hawke convinces Anders to do the smart thing: hang up his coat, hang up his old staff, and before he knows it there’d be hundreds of copies worn by hundreds of different people, some of them not even mages, running amok in the Free Marches and Ferelden and Orlais, too many targets for a crumbling Templar order to catch.
For years now, Anders had been trying to convince Hawke that he’s become more spirit than man, but that’s likely a lie because asking him to cut his hair was the most difficult part of the transformation. Hawke takes that herb dagger off Anders’ belt and thins out the back until the shape of Anders’ skull is visible, leaving the fringe just long enough to hang rakishly over his dark eyebrows.
“You are enjoying this,” Anders accuses, but for the first time in literal years his smile is lopsided, like he’s recognising someone in the looking glass he hasn’t seen in ages; an old friend.
They settle down in the anderfels to hide in plain sight, just a couple of apostates taking in magelings and war orphans and old books, grossing out the kids sometimes kissing against the stacks.
It takes years of drudgery and routine child-rearing and children setting barns on fire - all things a Hawke is used to, and an Anders is not - before they’re mostly forgotten.
The world keeps turning, tugged towards better one year and worse the next, meandering inexorably forward into the light. There are wars, one disorganised Exalted March that goes nowhere, more orphans to live alongside the magelings. But at least there aren’t any new Blights, and life is boring and good until one day Anders find bruises that don’t hurt.
“It’s time, love,” Anders tells Hawke with only a hint of sadness; they’re older now, after all, old for fugitives, old for farmers even - ancient for people like them. They’re in their bed they’ve shared for twenty years, still holding hands.
It’s been a better life than either of them have expected.
But for once, Hawke can’t think of anything witty to say, just stares at the beams holding up their roof and thinks of how the next time winter thaws into spring, it’d be without Anders.
Anders says, quietly apologetic, “Sorry to leave you so soon.”
Well, that won’t do.
“I always knew you’d be the kind of man to saddle me with children and then fuck off.” There’d be days left yet, and Hawke will not spend it alone. Turning towards Anders, squeezing their linked hands and with eyes going round and wide in mock fury, Hawke quips, “But I hadn’t expected like, fifty of them.”
“Never change, love,” Anders says, huffing out a laugh.
He looks sweet still, maybe sweeter, the angry and stubborn set of his jaw has softened into something Hawke isn’t afraid to scoot over and kiss; Hawke doesn’t think twice about pressing more kisses to the well-loved jut of his cheekbone, the barely noticeable greying at his temples, beginning a goodbye in slow, incremental steps.
It’s tradition but it’s a terrible thing for Anders to die alone, so Hawke pens a series of letters behind Anders’ back and summons the old gang - whomever’s left that hasn’t gone on their calling yet.
Turns out, Nathaniel Howe and Oghren are still kicking around; one’s holding on out of sheer spite and the other’s so well preserved in alcohol there’s no room for the blight to take hold. They agree to have a living wake at Tapsters to get some lava viewing in, and invites Carver since his time’s likely next year and this is probably the last chance they can break bread and knock back a few pints together, pretend like it’s old times and nobody’s dying.
The ale is kind of gross, but it makes Orzammar look good, fills in the ember glow of lava with halos at the edge of your vision from all the deep mushrooms that go in the stuff.
“And what’s this one doing here?” Oghren points at Hawke, wow rude, and marinates himself some more with a bottle of clear brew he gets out of his pack - moved away from here so I wouldn’t have to drink this piss made out of lichen. “Haven’t you spent enough of your life digging up ancient evil idols?”
“I know all about you too, you smelly dwarf,” Hawke says before Oghren takes over and starts regaling them with tales of his nuglet.
Hawke is both puzzled and delighted by the old dwarf’s obsession with hairless bunny-pig things until Anders cuts in and helpfully explains that the nuglet is actually a baby dwarf who’s like, thirty now and not an actual nug. They end up talking about the kids and it’s Oghren’s turn to be delighted by their last count, the fifty-three they’ve taken in and raised over two decades, patting Anders on the back.
“Certainly there are better things to talk about,” Carver says, clearly uncomfortable over their talk of children, for some reason, because -
“Uncle Carver always stays for a full week come Summerday and bring presents for everyone,” Hawke says, ignoring Carver’s glare. “Except me. He never brings anything for me.”
“One time he brought the kids a ball that gave them tails after holding it,” Anders says in an aside as if Carver isn’t right there. “Thank the Maker that wasn’t permanent.”
“And the one time he brought back some shiny, iridescent rocks that turned out to be deep stalker eggs exposed to lyrium too long. That was fun,” Hawke adds, laughing.
They talk about the accumulated wars Carver’s fought in, all the battles Anders’ missed, Nathaniel Howe’s extended family, good times standing in for goodbyes. It makes Hawke want desperately for a quill and some fresh ink, rolls and rolls of parchment for all the stories so Varric could turn it into something grand, a tale of the Wardens, immortalised in print.
They don’t talk about how Carver probably won’t be staying for Summerday next year, that it’d be the kids who’d already left the nest that fly back to make up for his lack, but they talk about the blessings, what a miracle it is for four wardens to make it to their calling.
Carver’s bigger than ever, supposed to be more mature these days, but even though he’s lost the chip on his shoulder maybe ten years ago he’s still a little shit, and will always be a little shit, so he mumbles, “Gross,” and looks away at the gates leading down into the deep roads as Hawke presses a kiss to Anders’ lips that’s probably too filthy for public viewing.
Hawke still remembers how Anders had said We shouldn’t, a lifetime ago now; how Hawke’s answer is still Fuck should.
“I think I may come back this way in fifteen years and do the same,” Hawke says, leaning in close and smiling like a secret for them, everyone’s looking away now. “Think the Legion will take me?”
Anders shakes his head; his friends have gone on ahead, but he keeps lingering. “You deserve some peace, don’t you think? Die in bed, surrounded by all the kids we’ve raised?”
“I don’t know,” Hawke says, thinking of how these are the last words Anders is going to hear on his side, now, really; one last kiss that’s familiar and sweet with spirit fire like they’re more than two of them saying goodbye. “I think I’ll have to come back. It’s practically tradition in my family to go down fighting.”
The one advantage to being a mage is that you never really lose it, not like those rogues and fighters getting slower and duller in their dotage. Mages get sharper, stronger, their connection to the Fade firmer, their well of energy expanding until it’s a veritable stream.
Hawke’s spent a week down here in the dark now, finding passages that only seem familiar, walls thrumming with mana like a long lost friend. At this rate, lack of food will kill hawke before amy darkspawn does; the Legion’s lost somewhere a day past, and Hawke’s the only one left of their party, climbing over the fallen, crumbling pillars, crawling beneath rubble of ancient walls - having one last adventure.
Hawke hears echoes, sometimes: Bethany’s laughter drifting overhead, Carver grumbling somewhere behind like they’re still on that old caravan trip down in the cavernous highways. Maybe it’s the dwarven ale, or maybe the mushrooms Hawke’s been adding to the meals to make them less stale biscuit and cheese, but three weeks in - finally cornered, finally wounded, blinded and huddling in a heap, Hawke hears Anders last.
Or rather, Hawke hears Justice. It’s that booming voice from the Fade, that strange construction of the gallows, a spirit wearing Anders’ skin.
“You’re really here, right?” Hawke tries to say, and the words come out all garbled, bloody - but spirits will always understand.
Justice says something loud and ostentatious that Hawke can’t quite parse, and presses a hand - skin crepey and dry - to Hawke’s forehead, sweetly presses a dry kiss to Hawke’s temple. They weave their fingers together, huddled in a corner, and there’s poetry in that, Hawke thinks: like coming full circle.
“Have you been waiting for me?” Hawke says, and now understands the loneliness and desperation of spending too long in the deep roads, too. It gets to you, the voices get louder, every loss feels like they’re happening all at once. “Will you come with me when I -”
Go, Justice booms in Hawke’s ears, but it’s a voice not so much heard as felt, like the chantry bell in Lothering. And I will follow.
Hawke has no idea what death is like for other people, or what dreams are like for other people. Hawke’s dreams had always been the Fade, and death, Hawke thinks, must be the Fade too. It’s just dreaming all the time, stuck in the solipsism of one’s own Fade. You get handed some prime real estate, all on your lonesome. You can build houses and mansions and gardens and entire villages, if you feel like it - you’ve certainly got the time. You can populate the space with imaginary people, or shades dressed up as people, but ultimately, you are on your own.
After years of that - who knows, could be a week, Hawke has never been patient about sitting around - Hawke tears down the farmstead with fake Bethany and Carver and Leandra, lets the backdrop of windmills and crumbling Tevinter highways sink back into featureless mud, and goes walking.
No mage is an island, except mages are islands, and the only way to go from one to another is through a demon. You can make deals with demons and learn the glyphs that take you places, but Hawke’s managed to avoid that for an entire lifetime, so Hawke bullies them instead, builds inroads of waypoints, conjures up Freedom’s call so on the seemingly eternal journey through an infinite number of worlds, Hawke can have something of Anders’ to hold.
Anders would talk about this meeting later as if they found each other - lies, Hawke found him - in the wild, desolate plains, the west side of a mountain range, the harsh lands of Anderfels with its dry, cold winters and scorching, unforgiving summers.
It is not quite Anders that Hawke finds, though; they both wear the skins of youth, but for Anders, youth was before Hawke, before Kirkwall, before joining the Wardens, even. Youth was one of his runaway bouts, lost in the fields of Ferelden.
Hawke’s not sure that the young man is Anders at first; he has the same mess of flyaways, hair that refuses to stay put even tied back with a woven cord, an earring Hawke has never seen, on the same side as Anders’ pierced lobe that never closed over, unfamiliar Tevinter robes with familiar feather pauldrons. A sunset’s painting the dome of Anders’ little world a ripe peach, striped with the saturated citrus colours of fruits from Seheron. The dry mud roads don’t crunch beneath Anders’ boots as he approaches, wearing stubble that Hawke can almost feel and amber eyes that light up the exact same way a hundred, a thousand times, each and every last time a revelation.
“Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Hawke gripes, flustered, only just realising that these are the first words Anders is hearing in at least a decade and a half since they parted. The years in between dissolving away - like they’ve never parted at all. “I can’t believe you’re choosing to live in this dump.”
This dump is the exact same dump Hawke left behind, their home west of the mountains with their perfectly proficient, adult mages keeping watch over their tomes, taking in magelings, passing on their stories and magic. There’s the faint outline of their fixer-upper ruin of a sprawling home in the mist that Hawke can make out, and spends a moment to think, swallowing back a lump - These were my best years, too.
“Hello to you too, love,” Anders says, flashing a smile so brilliant that even Hawke is momentarily lost for words.
A first kiss is a singular, magical thing, and when Hawke finally closes that distance - from literal worlds away to a breath apart - to weave their fingers together, to seal their lips together, to find that they still fit, it may not be full of passion and fury like the performance Varric wrote for them, but it is still full of spirit fire: a tingling, background hum, lightning living in Hawke’s veins - carried across the veil.
And after all this time, after so many years in the sun, Anders tastes of Fade sunshine, the fresh smell of cut grass, of summer rains - the open sky.