It's not something he's ever thought before. Fenris had always been physically smaller, maybe, but in Kirkwall it was always understood by everyone that he could have snapped Anders's spine with one finger if he ever so chose. He'd been a force, a presence, all power and defiance and controlled anger.
He draws his hand away—damp fingers against Fenris's jaw, then down the length of his body—and thinks that there's so much the templars have taken away, just because they could.
He sets them cheek-to-cheek when Fenris turns his face away, lips to his ear, voice quiet and husked.]
Don't.
[Apologies don't count for much, not here, not anymore. He could apologize, too, for putting them here, for setting fire to kindling, for any number of things, but it would change nothing. They'd still be here tomorrow, the templars would still come, Fenris would still need whatever he needs, and Anders would still give it. It's a blessing, in a twisted way. It's what keeps him going. What picks his head up off scraps of fabric every day, instead of just letting the Void take him like it always should have.
His thumb traces the line of Fenris's hipbone, stark under skin. He feels silent, understood freedom to touch now, boundaries crossed that he hadn't been able to before. It won't last, maybe; morning might come and chase it away. But he drinks it in while he has it, satisfying old cravings for closeness, contact.]
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It's not something he's ever thought before. Fenris had always been physically smaller, maybe, but in Kirkwall it was always understood by everyone that he could have snapped Anders's spine with one finger if he ever so chose. He'd been a force, a presence, all power and defiance and controlled anger.
He draws his hand away—damp fingers against Fenris's jaw, then down the length of his body—and thinks that there's so much the templars have taken away, just because they could.
He sets them cheek-to-cheek when Fenris turns his face away, lips to his ear, voice quiet and husked.]
Don't.
[Apologies don't count for much, not here, not anymore. He could apologize, too, for putting them here, for setting fire to kindling, for any number of things, but it would change nothing. They'd still be here tomorrow, the templars would still come, Fenris would still need whatever he needs, and Anders would still give it. It's a blessing, in a twisted way. It's what keeps him going. What picks his head up off scraps of fabric every day, instead of just letting the Void take him like it always should have.
His thumb traces the line of Fenris's hipbone, stark under skin. He feels silent, understood freedom to touch now, boundaries crossed that he hadn't been able to before. It won't last, maybe; morning might come and chase it away. But he drinks it in while he has it, satisfying old cravings for closeness, contact.]
What else do you need?