Tumblr: hawkefels Rating: T ish? Probably PG. Genre: Fluffy fluff and also a bit of angst, but fluff. Mention of canon character deaths. Prompt: 2. hawke & anders during their years in kirkwall, bc i'd love to see snippets of moments of both of their lives before & after they get together. + 3. something holiday related? Note: I combined two prompts into a new thing, sort of? also a smidge of timeline restructuring for Act 1 *shrug*. hope you like it <3
---
Hawke’s first Satinalia in Kirkwall was dismal. Having to spend it in Lowtown was terrible enough, with his family trying to live in Gamlen’s meager hovel while he and Bethany did odd jobs for Athenril, but Carver’s still-recent death made all the festivities sour. Their mother was a wreck, alternately blaming Hawke and Bethany for his death, then apologizing profusely and lamenting their situation. Gamlen was close to useless, and spent his time arguing and drinking. It was no wonder that he felt like he was suffocating.
The holiday had brought no decorations to this part of the city, save for a few ribbons tied around sagging door knobs. Hawke headed towards the Hanged Man, hoping that at least he could get a drink and relax for a bit.
Varric was outside the bar, which was an anomaly. He grinned at Hawke and waved him over. “Good timing, I was just going to call on you.”
“‘Call on me,’ honestly. How many times do I have to tell you you’re not my type, Varric?” Hawke grinned. He wasn’t sure about the dwarf’s motivations yet, but for all his outwardly dishonest character, he seemed to be a genuine sort. Hawke understood those sort of contradictions.
Varric put a hand on his chest and sighed. “I’ll find a way to come to terms with my heartbreak. I was going to see if you wanted to come out for a drink, and here you are.” Almost like Varric knew how depressing his living arrangement was, and how badly he wanted something to distract himself. He held the door open for Hawke, who was greeted with a blast of stale air and raucous singing.
He had to lean down to hear Varric as he continued speaking. “Isabela’s at the counter, she’s not quite at ‘table-dancing’ levels of drunk, but just give it time. Fenris just growled at me when I asked, so not sure if that was a yes or a no.” The dwarf ticked off names using his fingers. “Aveline’s on patrol, Merrill’s staying in, and…” He grinned, pointing at his usual table. “I persuaded him to come out of his hole for a bit.”
Anders looked up as they approached, smiling softly, almost wary as Hawke sat next to him. “He found you too, then?”
“More like I found him,” Hawke replied. He grinned at the mage, trying out his charm, and he was pleased to see Anders blush. It had only been a few weeks since they’d met, and with what happened at the Chantry, Hawke had decided to back off from any overt affections, but he couldn’t resist just one flirtation with the holiday spirit in the air.
Once Isabela joined, giggling and kissing both of them on the cheek with a wet smack, they played Wicked Grace and made a point to discuss nothing serious. Hawke was buzzed off the terrible ale, using it as an excuse to brush against Anders every now and then, while Varric eyed both of them and shook his head with a smirk.
---
Hawke’s name and status changed over the next two years, which meant, according to his mother, that he had certain social obligations to fill for the holidays. Instead of his usual Satinalia pastime of drinking at the Hanged Man, he was forced to attend a ball in a stuffy mansion in Hightown where he could be paraded before his mother’s friends as a match for their daughters, which he tolerated for an hour before sneaking out through the servant’s entrance and climbing the trellised garden walls with ease.
He ripped off his feathered mask as he headed into the tavern, elbowing his way upstairs to Varric’s suite, and tossed it to Isabela as she announced his arrival with a hoot. The pirate immediately put it on, and Merrill petted the red plumage appreciatively.
“Lord Hawke here to grace us with his presence!” Varric cheered. “I knew they couldn’t hold you forever.”
“It’ll be too soon if I ever see one of those damn masks again,” Hawke grumbled. He took the mug that Fenris silently offered him with a thankful noise, and sat between him and Anders, who was staring at him with a dazed expression. “Cat got your tongue?”
Anders blushed and recovered quickly. “Just not used to you looking so… respectful.”
“He means ‘sexy,’” Isabela clarified, giving Hawke’s silk tunic an appreciative look. “You’re showing almost as much chest as I am.”
“I had to do something to scandalize the Orlesians,” Hawke replied. “A pity I don’t have Varric’s amazing chest hair to go with it.”
“Stop spending so much time growing it on your face and you would,” Varric retorted.
“Ooh, what are those?” Isabela said, pointing at the garland and ribbons tied to his sleeve. “Is that mistletoe?”
“Is that what it is? They said it was festive and I had to wear it.” He shrugged, untying the ribbon and letting the bundle fall from his wrist. “You want it?”
“Oh, no you don’t. It’s bad luck to give it away, you have to kiss someone before the night’s over.” She winked at him, then nodded at Varric. “Right?”
“She’s right. Bad luck. Doom for the entire new year,” the dwarf said, grinning.
Hawke eyed them suspiciously, mouth curling into a smirk. “Uh huh.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Fenris grumbled, without prompting, already knowing where this was going and wishing to stay out of it.
Hawke pretended to be hurt, putting a hand over his heart. He turned to Anders, who was as red as the feathers on Hawke’s mask. “I can’t risk bad luck.”
He batted his eyelashes at the mage, who straightened himself and adopted a similar smirk. “Of course not,” Anders said, nodding. “You may as well get on with it, then.”
Isabela and Merrill were huddled together, chins on their hands, watching with beaming smiles, and Hawke made a rude gesture to them as he leaned in closer to Anders, leaving the other man to close the distance. There was a tentative touch to Hawke’s shoulder as their lips met, and the rogue put his arm around Anders’ chair as warmth spread through him, wanting so badly to grab him and deepen the kiss, to lose himself in Anders and forget everything else around them.
Fenris’ disgusted noise made him pull back with a laugh, his heart racing as Anders resumed his dazed expression. The hand was still on his shoulder, he involuntarily licked his lips and forced himself to look away from Anders’ golden eyes. “Here, take it,” Hawke said, flinging the mistletoe at Isabela.
The pirate squealed with joy and wrapped her arms around Merrill, delivering a much less chaste version to the elf, who giggled uncontrollably as she turned pink with embarrassment. The bundle passed to Varric, and Fenris threatened him with creative bodily harm for trying to lean in and deliver a smooch. Merrill kissed Varric on the cheek to appease the dwarf. Hawke let the hand around Anders’ chair slip to a feathered shoulder, and the mage leaned closer until Hawke could feel his warmth through his fancy clothes.
---
The invitations to Satinalia balls sat unopened on Hawke’s desk, the house devoid of any sign of the season. It had been three months since Leandra’s death, and the funeral pallor still remained, Hawke a mess and trapped in the politics of Kirkwall and the Qunari. Everything was blessedly quiet for now, and Anders took the initiative to send Bodhan out to gather groceries and other supplies, and also send a message to Varric.
Justice didn’t understand why Anders tied holly to the staircase, or why he set cinnamon and nutmeg in oil over a candle to let the smell diffuse through the house. Anders had tried to explain holiday traditions before, but maybe he did it better this time, or the spirit knew how much both Hawke and Anders needed this, because Justice advised him that the wreath on the door was crooked and should be fixed before the rogue came home.
Varric arrived with his deck of cards and a bottle of the least terrible rum Corff could brew. Isabela brought mistletoe that was likely stolen from some nobleman’s awning, and Merrill brought tiny, slightly burned cookies that looked like stars. When Hawke, Fenris, and Aveline came home from their bandit-killing, the elf turned without a word to fetch wine, and Aveline went to task at supervising Orana in making Fereldan stew.
Hawke stood in his house, stunned, like he’d never seen it before.
“I leave for a day and you just go and ‘festive’ everything,” he joked, as Anders pushed him towards the sitting room, where Merrill sat on Isabela’s lap and listened to Fenris talk about their excursion, while Varric snuck more of his books on Hawke’s bookcase.
“I’d apologize, but I’m not actually sorry,” Anders replied. His hand cupped Hawke’s cheek and he pressed a kiss to his lips. “Happy Satinalia, love.”
“How the time flies,” Hawke replied, and he laughed and ducked his head into Anders’ shoulder, quick fingers brushing at his eyes while he hid the gesture with a kiss on the mage’s neck. “Happy Satinalia,” he murmured.
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branchandroot
hawkefels' gift
Date: 2015-12-19 08:44 pm (UTC)Rating: T ish? Probably PG.
Genre: Fluffy fluff and also a bit of angst, but fluff. Mention of canon character deaths.
Prompt: 2. hawke & anders during their years in kirkwall, bc i'd love to see snippets of moments of both of their lives before & after they get together. + 3. something holiday related?
Note: I combined two prompts into a new thing, sort of? also a smidge of timeline restructuring for Act 1 *shrug*. hope you like it <3
---
Hawke’s first Satinalia in Kirkwall was dismal. Having to spend it in Lowtown was terrible enough, with his family trying to live in Gamlen’s meager hovel while he and Bethany did odd jobs for Athenril, but Carver’s still-recent death made all the festivities sour. Their mother was a wreck, alternately blaming Hawke and Bethany for his death, then apologizing profusely and lamenting their situation. Gamlen was close to useless, and spent his time arguing and drinking. It was no wonder that he felt like he was suffocating.
The holiday had brought no decorations to this part of the city, save for a few ribbons tied around sagging door knobs. Hawke headed towards the Hanged Man, hoping that at least he could get a drink and relax for a bit.
Varric was outside the bar, which was an anomaly. He grinned at Hawke and waved him over. “Good timing, I was just going to call on you.”
“‘Call on me,’ honestly. How many times do I have to tell you you’re not my type, Varric?” Hawke grinned. He wasn’t sure about the dwarf’s motivations yet, but for all his outwardly dishonest character, he seemed to be a genuine sort. Hawke understood those sort of contradictions.
Varric put a hand on his chest and sighed. “I’ll find a way to come to terms with my heartbreak. I was going to see if you wanted to come out for a drink, and here you are.” Almost like Varric knew how depressing his living arrangement was, and how badly he wanted something to distract himself. He held the door open for Hawke, who was greeted with a blast of stale air and raucous singing.
He had to lean down to hear Varric as he continued speaking. “Isabela’s at the counter, she’s not quite at ‘table-dancing’ levels of drunk, but just give it time. Fenris just growled at me when I asked, so not sure if that was a yes or a no.” The dwarf ticked off names using his fingers. “Aveline’s on patrol, Merrill’s staying in, and…” He grinned, pointing at his usual table. “I persuaded him to come out of his hole for a bit.”
Anders looked up as they approached, smiling softly, almost wary as Hawke sat next to him. “He found you too, then?”
“More like I found him,” Hawke replied. He grinned at the mage, trying out his charm, and he was pleased to see Anders blush. It had only been a few weeks since they’d met, and with what happened at the Chantry, Hawke had decided to back off from any overt affections, but he couldn’t resist just one flirtation with the holiday spirit in the air.
Once Isabela joined, giggling and kissing both of them on the cheek with a wet smack, they played Wicked Grace and made a point to discuss nothing serious. Hawke was buzzed off the terrible ale, using it as an excuse to brush against Anders every now and then, while Varric eyed both of them and shook his head with a smirk.
---
Hawke’s name and status changed over the next two years, which meant, according to his mother, that he had certain social obligations to fill for the holidays. Instead of his usual Satinalia pastime of drinking at the Hanged Man, he was forced to attend a ball in a stuffy mansion in Hightown where he could be paraded before his mother’s friends as a match for their daughters, which he tolerated for an hour before sneaking out through the servant’s entrance and climbing the trellised garden walls with ease.
He ripped off his feathered mask as he headed into the tavern, elbowing his way upstairs to Varric’s suite, and tossed it to Isabela as she announced his arrival with a hoot. The pirate immediately put it on, and Merrill petted the red plumage appreciatively.
“Lord Hawke here to grace us with his presence!” Varric cheered. “I knew they couldn’t hold you forever.”
“It’ll be too soon if I ever see one of those damn masks again,” Hawke grumbled. He took the mug that Fenris silently offered him with a thankful noise, and sat between him and Anders, who was staring at him with a dazed expression. “Cat got your tongue?”
Anders blushed and recovered quickly. “Just not used to you looking so… respectful.”
“He means ‘sexy,’” Isabela clarified, giving Hawke’s silk tunic an appreciative look. “You’re showing almost as much chest as I am.”
“I had to do something to scandalize the Orlesians,” Hawke replied. “A pity I don’t have Varric’s amazing chest hair to go with it.”
“Stop spending so much time growing it on your face and you would,” Varric retorted.
“Ooh, what are those?” Isabela said, pointing at the garland and ribbons tied to his sleeve. “Is that mistletoe?”
“Is that what it is? They said it was festive and I had to wear it.” He shrugged, untying the ribbon and letting the bundle fall from his wrist. “You want it?”
“Oh, no you don’t. It’s bad luck to give it away, you have to kiss someone before the night’s over.” She winked at him, then nodded at Varric. “Right?”
“She’s right. Bad luck. Doom for the entire new year,” the dwarf said, grinning.
Hawke eyed them suspiciously, mouth curling into a smirk. “Uh huh.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Fenris grumbled, without prompting, already knowing where this was going and wishing to stay out of it.
Hawke pretended to be hurt, putting a hand over his heart. He turned to Anders, who was as red as the feathers on Hawke’s mask. “I can’t risk bad luck.”
He batted his eyelashes at the mage, who straightened himself and adopted a similar smirk. “Of course not,” Anders said, nodding. “You may as well get on with it, then.”
Isabela and Merrill were huddled together, chins on their hands, watching with beaming smiles, and Hawke made a rude gesture to them as he leaned in closer to Anders, leaving the other man to close the distance. There was a tentative touch to Hawke’s shoulder as their lips met, and the rogue put his arm around Anders’ chair as warmth spread through him, wanting so badly to grab him and deepen the kiss, to lose himself in Anders and forget everything else around them.
Fenris’ disgusted noise made him pull back with a laugh, his heart racing as Anders resumed his dazed expression. The hand was still on his shoulder, he involuntarily licked his lips and forced himself to look away from Anders’ golden eyes. “Here, take it,” Hawke said, flinging the mistletoe at Isabela.
The pirate squealed with joy and wrapped her arms around Merrill, delivering a much less chaste version to the elf, who giggled uncontrollably as she turned pink with embarrassment. The bundle passed to Varric, and Fenris threatened him with creative bodily harm for trying to lean in and deliver a smooch. Merrill kissed Varric on the cheek to appease the dwarf. Hawke let the hand around Anders’ chair slip to a feathered shoulder, and the mage leaned closer until Hawke could feel his warmth through his fancy clothes.
---
The invitations to Satinalia balls sat unopened on Hawke’s desk, the house devoid of any sign of the season. It had been three months since Leandra’s death, and the funeral pallor still remained, Hawke a mess and trapped in the politics of Kirkwall and the Qunari. Everything was blessedly quiet for now, and Anders took the initiative to send Bodhan out to gather groceries and other supplies, and also send a message to Varric.
Justice didn’t understand why Anders tied holly to the staircase, or why he set cinnamon and nutmeg in oil over a candle to let the smell diffuse through the house. Anders had tried to explain holiday traditions before, but maybe he did it better this time, or the spirit knew how much both Hawke and Anders needed this, because Justice advised him that the wreath on the door was crooked and should be fixed before the rogue came home.
Varric arrived with his deck of cards and a bottle of the least terrible rum Corff could brew. Isabela brought mistletoe that was likely stolen from some nobleman’s awning, and Merrill brought tiny, slightly burned cookies that looked like stars. When Hawke, Fenris, and Aveline came home from their bandit-killing, the elf turned without a word to fetch wine, and Aveline went to task at supervising Orana in making Fereldan stew.
Hawke stood in his house, stunned, like he’d never seen it before.
“I leave for a day and you just go and ‘festive’ everything,” he joked, as Anders pushed him towards the sitting room, where Merrill sat on Isabela’s lap and listened to Fenris talk about their excursion, while Varric snuck more of his books on Hawke’s bookcase.
“I’d apologize, but I’m not actually sorry,” Anders replied. His hand cupped Hawke’s cheek and he pressed a kiss to his lips. “Happy Satinalia, love.”
“How the time flies,” Hawke replied, and he laughed and ducked his head into Anders’ shoulder, quick fingers brushing at his eyes while he hid the gesture with a kiss on the mage’s neck. “Happy Satinalia,” he murmured.