Hawke lay on his back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head and eyes closed. He hummed to himself, quietly enough that he could hear Anders as his lover moved around their small room. “Anders come to me,” he sang to the tune of a song he’d heard at Skyhold. “Anders come to me. Anders come to see, can’t you, can’t you come to see. That I love you.”
Anders exhaled a long sigh, blowing unruly strands of hair out of his face. The tightness in his chest didn’t abate, but after a moment he chuckled and put down his quill. “You’re in a good mood tonight,” he said in a light, teasing tone as he obeyed. Hawke slid over to make room and Anders sat beside him, then laughed again when Hawke pulled him into an embrace. Hawke had been back from Orlais for a week, but he clung to Anders with the same ferocity that he had on the night that he’d returned.
Hawke kissed his neck, the scruff on his chin scratching pleasantly against Anders’ throat. He distracted them both with that for a bit before he finally said, “You don’t know how much I missed you. Damn Wardens, damn Inquisition. I hereby resign from giving a shit about any of them.”
“What about Varric?”
“I’ll go rescue him at some point.”
The night went by too fast. Anders barely slept at all, but the insomnia wasn’t unwelcome. Instead of sleeping, he pressed against Hawke’s long back and traced his tired fingers over the scars on Hawke’s stomach, then over Hawke’s hip, thigh. After all their years together he knew each curve by heart, but he lingered over them anyway, IMPORTING? each inch of skin to memory.
But he couldn’t do it forever. Gingerly Anders slipped out of bed, but Hawke still rustled the blankets, stirring and murmuring in his sleep. Anders paused with a breath burning in his lungs, waiting and perversely hoping that Hawke would wake, but the other man rolled over instead, filling the spot that Anders had left. Outside their rickety cottage the sun began a slow creep over the horizon and weak light made it through the clouds - If he was going to leave, it had to be soon.
The letter was written, his bag packed. There was a final step that made Anders ache to think about, but he made himself do it. He stood over Hawke and with trembling fingers, cast the spell: sleep. Then before his heart broke, Anders closed the door behind him and started walking south.