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When Theron opened the door to his quarters, he found Anders on the bed, curled into the fetal position, clutching his stomach and looking vaguely ill. This was a small improvement; when he’d gone downstairs to see if the kitchen had the ingredients for the remedy, Anders had been groaning about how he was going to die any minute now.
He looked up at Theron when he entered with mug in one hand and a blanket in the other, putting on a miserable face that was so believable that it had to either be genuine or a sign that Anders was a much better actor than Theron would have suspected. Theron closed the door with his foot, avoiding Anders’ discarded pauldrons as he crossed the room.
“I told you that you shouldn’t have eaten the whole pie.” Theron sat on the edge of the bed and proffered the mug to Anders. Once he took it, he set the blanket down and bent at the waist to unlace his boots.
“But you made it for me; nobody’s ever made me a pie bef—ugh! Maker, what’s in this? Do I smell elfroot?” Anders asked, pulling the mug away from his lips, peering into it suspiciously.
“I didn’t make it for you, the cooks did,” Theron said, patient and quiet as he slid off a boot. “And yes, elfroot, tea leaves, mint, and a bit of brandy. It will taste terrible, but it will help.”
“Still, nobody’s done something like that for me in a long time, and it was my favorite kind too. I can’t believe you knew my favorite kind of pie.” Anders tilted the mug slightly before swirling the liquid, wrinkling his nose at it in disgust. “I think this just might make me vomit for sure.”
Theron rolled his eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head. He folded it smoothly before standing. “You told me it was your favorite. I listen, you know.” Theron padded silently around the room, latching the door, checking the oil in the hurricane lamps, placing the shirt on top of the dresser and taking down his hair, letting it fall, wavy and long, over his shoulders. When he returned to bed, Anders was still staring at the mug. “Drink, and I’ll rub your back.”
The sigh that Anders heaved was impressively put-upon, but he put the cup to his lips and, without much more protest, downed the hot liquid. “Ugh!” He shoved the empty mug at Theron. “I will never forget that taste; I don’t want any more Dalish herbal remedies from you.”
“You’ll change your mind when it works.” Theron slid next to Anders. “On your stomach.” When he complied, Theron straddled his hips, resting on his knees as he pressed the heels of his hands into his shoulders, moving in firm circles. Anders still grumbled, moaning about feeling sick, but within a half an hour he was relaxed enough to coax Theron off of his back and up against him instead.
They laid the wrong way round this time, with Theron gathering Anders against his slim chest, getting lost behind him as he tugged the blanket over them. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and kissed him lightly on the back of the neck, smiling into his skin as Anders sighed, soft and contented.
“I told you it would help,” Theron murmured, satisfied but not smug, gripping Anders’ hand when it closed around his.
“Perhaps it did. Perhaps the taste just distracted me.” After that it was silent except for Pounce rumbling away at the end of the bed and Theron’s soft breath on his hair. “Theron?” Anders waited for the soft response, feeling the vibration in Theron’s chest against his back more than he actually heard it. “Talk to me.”
“About?”
“Tell me a story.”
Theron chuckled. “Should I tell you the one of the handsome, rakish apostate who sweeps the Commander of the Grey off his feet?”
“That’s a nice one, but I’d like to hear about you. About your life before the Wardens.”
Theron grew quiet, and his response came just as Anders was about to question him again. “There is nothing interesting to tell.”
“There must be.” Anders pressed him, it had been too long. There were too many stories of the circle and none of the Dalish, too many memories of claustrophobia and Templars and not enough of wandering and free mages. “You must have some memories worth sharing.” He paused to weigh his next statement, deciding to chance it. “Were you ever in love before?”
“Those are old wounds, Anders.” Theron’s voice was flat. “You do not want to open them.”
“I’m a healer.” Anders tightened his grip on Theron’s hand when he felt him try and withdraw. “I want to know you; I feel like I only get these glimpses, like a dream, or like touching the Fade.” Despite his hold, Theron succeeded in getting away from him. He slid to the end of the bed, swinging his legs off the side but going no further than that. He rested his elbows on his knees, covering his face with both hands.
“He was a clanmate, and he is dead,” Theron said, finally. “Must I continue?” Anders came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, then wrapped it around him when he didn’t push him away. “I wish you wouldn’t persist.” Theron raked back his hair, huffing through his nose.
They sat like that for a while, until Theron’s feet got cold, until the hurricane lamp on the desk sputtered out, and until Theron was finally ready to talk.
“We grew up together, like brothers.” There were long pauses in between sentences, agitated moments where Theron would grit his teeth or work his jaw, refusing to look at Anders. It was late. The sky through the small, slitted windows was pitch and dim starlight. “I fell in love with him by degrees, over years, first his eyes, then his laugh, then all of him. It was such a naive, foolish thing, yet it was everything to me.” Theron pulled his feet into the bed, underneath him, sighing as Anders wrapped the blanket around them, holding him close. “I told you about how I became a Warden; the mirror, Duncan, the corruption, but Tamlen was there too. I was rescued, he disappeared.” Theron leaned back into Anders, whether he was accepting the comfort or just exhausted was unclear.
His breath was shaky when he continued. “I failed him, and he is dead. The rest is…it doesn’t matter. I do not want to dredge him up any further, Falon’Din has had him for longer than I did and it is done.” He turned to let Anders gather him up, to let him make him feel small. He curled into it, facing his future instead of his past. “There are graves within me that should not be disturbed. But if they must, it will be for you.”
Anders spent a long, long moment contemplating some sort of sentiment, wanting to tell Theron that he could be Sylaise to his Mythal, but having no confidence in his knowledge of the Elvhen pantheon. If that book had been wrong, who knew what that would mean. He settled on something more simple. A thank you, a kiss, a warm body to sleep against, and a story of his own.
The one he told was about the incomparable Commander of the Grey, who had managed to sweep a foolish, selfish apostate off of his feet.