Chapter Text
When Hawke first suggested during rehearsals that they add the kiss between Richard and Aumerle, Anders’ eyes had shot to Fenris like lightning.
It was a guilty reaction and he was glad no one seemed to be paying attention. He was already preparing arguments in his head for why the kiss would be a great addition to the scene - he didn’t especially want to kiss Fenris, but Anders had never met a fight he wouldn’t pick - because of course Fenris was going to protest and complain and generally make an ass of himself at the suggestion that they do anything that wasn’t pulled out of some crusty Victorian director’s playbook. It was one of those things that was as certain as death and taxes; Hawke and Isabela would get back together, the company would put on Romeo and Juliet every season , and Fenris would complain about modern theater .
Which is why he’s a little bit thrown, arguments dying in his mouth, when Fenris just shrugs one shoulder and says, “It suits them. I like it.”
Then suddenly everyone is looking at him for agreement, two dozen pairs of eyes on him. For a half-second he wants to protest just on principle, to refuse, not because he doesn’t like the idea of the kiss, but because something in him recoils at the thought of agreeing with Fenris. He stuffs it down guiltily. Why was he like this? Well, at least he stopped himself this time.
“No, yeah, I like it,” he says. He gives his best - for early rehearsal - royal wave. “Your king approves.”
Fenris rolls his eyes so hard he looks like he’s having a seizure.
Anders spitefully makes a note to do that all the time, and then scribbles kiss Aumerle accompanied by a frowny face with the tongue out on his script.
And then Hawke is moving on, “Okay, so you kiss and then keep going,” she says, pointing at Anders to indicate he should continue his monologue as King Richard laments the loss of his kingdom to his best friend Aumerle.
He scans through the script until he can get back to where they stopped. “Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland…”
They read through the rest of the scene, pausing here and there to jot down blocking notes. The kiss IS a good addition. Probably not what Shakespeare intended, but he likes to think his spirit would approve of a bit of gratuitous lip-locking. Richard and Aumerle spend the entire show practically joined at the hip, and they’ve already decided that Aumerle will be the one to mercy-kill Richard in his dramatic death scene in the last act. Adding some romantic subtext between them makes the whole thing a lot juicier. It’s what the audience expects to see in a Kirkwall Shakespeare Company production - lots of drama, murder, and sex. As The Bard intended.
That’s the thing. Richard and Aumerle kissing is a great idea.
Fenris and Anders? That’s a different story.
As they get closer to opening night, Fenris and Anders are both too distracted to get on each other’s nerves too much. There are costume fittings, last minute changes, defective mics, forgotten lines, and blocking snags to work out. Dress-rehearsal hurdles toward them at light speed, as it always does, and everyone is too tired from the stress of making a major stage production happen to do worse than bicker when they go out for drinks after rehearsal. Anders especially - he’s in practically every scene. A couple of times they have to poke him awake and shove him into an Uber when he falls asleep in the booth.
The last night before hell week is one of those nights. Varric, their long-time director, was telling some story about a production of The Crucible he did where the lead kept forgetting her lines. Anders remembers leaning his head back and thinking I’m just going to shut my eyes- I’m still listening and the next thing he knew his mouth felt dry and sticky, his eyes were crusty, and Fenris was nudging him in the leg. “Anders. Anders, wake up. Time to go home.”
“Mphl?” Anders manages.
“It’s almost midnight. They’re about to close.”
He rubs the gunk out of his eyes and looks around to see that Merrill, Hawke, and Isabela are already gone. Varric is settling up the tab. “Go get some rest, Blondie,” he adds while Fenris helps a nap-drunk Anders negotiate getting his arms back into his coat. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Mmhmm,” Anders responds, eloquently. His brain feels like it’s full of kittens. Soft and wriggly. “N’yep. Tomorrow.”
Varric pauses. “Fenris, can you make sure he gets home okay? I don’t want to have to recast Richard because Anders wandered into traffic. It’s way too late in production."
“I would hate to have to get a new scene partner for that kiss,” Fenris drawls. He has a dry sense of humor that makes it impossible sometimes to tell if he’s joking or not. Anders hates it. Kind of.
He successfully negotiates his way into his coat and out of the booth, patting his pockets to make sure his wallet, keys, and phone are still where he left them. Standing up he’s a bit more cognizant. Glancing around, he notices that Fenris hasn’t bothered to wait for him and is already halfway to the door. Anders negotiates his way across floorboards sticky with old spilled beer, around empty but un-bussed tables, until he catches up with him at the door.
“Your majesty,” Fenris says in that same dry tone, holding the front door open for Anders to pass through first.
Anders rattles a spoon around in the bottom of his brain and scrapes together enough wit to shoot back, “Thank you, dear cousin.” It’s funny because Aumerle and Richard are cousins in the play. Kissing cousins. Anders wonders if that’s one of those phrases Shakespeare invented. Probably not. Fenris would know. He was mister classical theater. Anders was just a dramatic bastard.
They wait for the bus together without talking, Fenris jingling his keys idly in his pocket. Under the streetlights his white-blond hair is nearly luminescent. Looking at Fenris, you really wouldn’t think he was as much of a classical snob as he was. Between the white hair, the extensive lyrium-ink tattoos, the omnipresent black the skinny jeans, he looked more like an aging emo kid who had simply never grown out of it. But woe betide the man who misquotes Lysistrata in his presence.
Anders rocks on his heels. He’s always hated long silences. “You know, I’m curious- the tattoos,” Fenris stiffens just a little, “Do they keep you from getting roles?”
“Sometimes.”
Anders had seen him changing in costumes enough to know that they went from his neck all the way down to his legs, covering his chest and back. Curling lines of lyrium-ink that stood out against his tan skin. It had never made sense to Anders - why get something that impossible to cover up if you know you want to act? Acting was all about convincing the audience you were someone other than you were and classical theater fans tended to have very specific mental images of certain characters. They could be vicious. Hell, Isabela has gotten criticized in the local papers for being too ‘Rivaini’ to play Lady Macbeth. It was bullshit, but that was how people were. Fenris had a hard enough time going for him with his skin tone and the fact that he was an elf- why add the hair and the tattoos to it?
“I just don’t get why you don’t do more modern shows-”
“I don’t want to do modern shows. I like Shakespeare. I like Euripides.”
Anders should probably stop there, but not arguing with people has never been his strong suit. “But you’re just making it harder for yourself to get roles.”
“Then I’m making it harder for myself!” Fenris snaps back. “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours.”
“Alright, fine, whatever,” he holds up his hands in mock-defeat. “Touchy, touchy.”
Fenris huffs.
Apparently the tattoos were off-limits. Years ago, when he first started working with the KSC, Varric had pulled Anders aside and told him not to ask Fenris about his hair. He’d abided by it, even if he didn’t get it. Apparently his ridiculously noticeable tattoos were as off-limits as his anime-white hair. Anders really didn’t get people who went out of their way to be noticeable and then got irritated when you noticed them.
When the green line bus pulls up they’re some of the only passengers aboard. Just them, the driver, and a tired-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform a few seats back.
He had considered going into spirit healing in college, before he got into acting and dropped out. Funny to think that in another universe, another Anders was probably taking this same bus home after a long shift at a hospital. There but for the grace of god go I, or whatever the quote was. He wonders if that other Anders ever imagines that in another universe he’s paid to pretend to be a king and kiss bitchy moody elves.
Anders grabs a window-seat near the back. He half expects Fenris to pointedly refuse to sit near him, but to his surprise he slides into the row beside Anders. He stretches his long legs, in those black skinny-jeans, out into the aisle. He knows that Fenris normally takes the orange line home- he and Anders live on opposite ends of town- but that the green will circle around and connect back to the orange a little while after his stop.
Fenris is going a good half-hour out of his way to make sure Anders gets home okay. He doesn’t even like Anders.
Yeah, but he’s only doing it because Varric asked, a sulky part of himself reminds Anders. He'd sounded sarcastic when he said he didn’t want a new scene partner. He’d probably love it if you got replaced.
He quashes down that nasty inner voice. He was tired and it was late, and being tired made him irritable.
Twenty-five-year-old Anders might have listened to it, might have let his frustration escalate into a fight just because he didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t pushing against something, but over-thirty-Anders was getting entirely too old for that kind of drama-for-the-sake-of-drama.
He sighs. “Hey, sorry if I was being pushy earlier. About the tattoos. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
Fenris looks up from the floor of the bus, an edge of surprise in the soft arch of his eyebrows. He fixes Anders with a look, as if he’s trying to figure out what role Anders is playing. What his motivation was. Anders puts on his best Mature Adult Who Knows How To Handle Conflict face.
“I’m being serious. I won’t bring it up anymore if it bothers you.”
“Apology accepted.” Fenris takes a breath, looking like he wants to go on. Anders waits. “I- myself as well. I’m sorry. It was only curiosity. I shouldn’t have shouted.”
A weight Anders hadn’t noticed settling around his shoulders breaks free. He smiles.
“Are we good?”
“Yes. We’re good. For my part.”
And then, because he’s been mature enough for one evening, Anders slings an arm around Fenris’ shoulder and pulls him into a squirming side-hug, declaring loudly, “You’re the best cousin-slash-boyfriend a man could ask for!”
The woman in the front of the bus turns to give them a what the fuck look, which really just makes the whole thing funnier.
“Get off!” Fenris tchs at him and wriggles loose, giving Anders a halfhearted shove into the wall of the bus. “Ass.”
“Is that how you speak to your king?”
“I didn’t vote for you.”
Anders snickers. Okay, fine, sometimes Fenris was funny.
The bus makes a few more stops. They’re approaching Anders’ building and his thoughts turn to whether he can muster up the energy to have a shower before he falls asleep or if he’s just going to content himself to sleeping in his own filth and showering in the morning.
He had to feed Pounce before he fell asleep too, or he’d wake up to the cat trying to bite off his toes. And food, something to eat would be nice. All he’d had at the bar had been a few stolen bites of Isabela’s nachos and the fact that he’s been drinking on an empty stomach is starting to get to him. He’ll be ravenous in the morning if he doesn’t eat. He's got to check in with Ser Gregoir tomorrow too, fuck. The Templars will show up at his door if he doesn't make his weekly check-in.
Fenris has laced his fingers together in his lap and is staring at them, seemingly in thought.
One stop left. Feed the cat. Shower. Sandwich. Then sleep.
“It wasn’t my choice,” Fenris says, as if continuing on a conversation that Anders hadn’t realized they’d been having.
“Huh?”
“You asked about the tattoos. I didn’t want them,” there’s a wealth of old bitterness in his voice. “But I wasn’t given a choice. And yes, they do make it difficult to get roles.”
Several questions come to mind, chief of which is, ‘who just goes around giving people full-body tattoos without their consent?’ He doesn’t think that’s the right thing to say, though.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he says instead. The edge of the words twist up, threatening to become a question. He crushes them back down.
“Do not be. It isn’t your fault. I should not have taken my anger out on you.”
He is still staring at his hands, entirely too serious
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Anders says, trying to inject some levity back into the conversation. “That’s what I’m here for.”
It works, a little. Fenris huffs a small laugh, then stifles it. He glances up. “Is this your stop?”
Anders follows his gaze to the light-up notice board at the front of the bus. It is, in fact, his stop. “Yep, home sweet home. Thanks for riding with me.” Fenris waves a hand in dismissal and stands so that Anders can slide out past him, both of them catching their balance easily as the bus slowed and lurched to a stop. “See you tomorrow, Fenris.”
“Your majesty,” there is a little twist in the corner of his mouth that belies the seriousness of his tone.
The thing about Fenris, Anders realized as they struggled their way through hell week, was that he was a really good actor.
Of course Anders had seen him act before, this was their eighth show together, but they were rarely scene partners. Fenris was usually cast in roles that complimented his serious, stolid personality. He had been the lead in
Othello
and Oberon in
Midsummer.
He’d made a really creepy ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was something about his voice- Fenris played a great sympathetic villain.
Anders usually did the roles that involved a bit of comedic timing; Benedick, Mercutio, although he’d made a damn good Prince Hal in Henry V if he said so himself. Richard II was a shakeup for both of them, but as rehearsals progressed no one could deny that it was a good one. Richard was childish and arrogant, which Anders found came easily to him, especially once he had the heavy golden robe and crown on, but he was also watching everything in his life get taken away from him and that was something Anders could bring out of himself too. The emptiness of giving up who you thought you were and finding something new underneath.
He didn’t know where the hell Fenris was pulling his Aumerle out of.
“Barkloughy Castle, call they this at hand?” he clamors out of their little prop boat, kicks off his shoes, and digs his bare toes into an imaginary surf. He breathes deep. A king returning to his kingdom, but also a man who’s just been on a very long ship ride.
“Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air after your late tossing on the breaking seas?” Fenris greets him. His Aumerle full of a soft, youthful energy that is so very unlike Fenris. He sounds ten years younger. He’s also… fond. Anders doesn’t know how he does that with his voice. It's clear in that one question that Aumerle is utterly besotted with Richard.
“Needs must,” he decides to look back over his shoulder at him and sees that Fenris has his arms crossed low across his chest and his head tilted a little to the side, watching him. They’re not running in costume today, and it’s hard to look at him and see Aumerle instead of Fenris. There is the edge of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Aumerle is gazing at Richard with affection brimming out of Fenris’ big green eyes. “I like it well,” he looks at Fenris when he says it, changing the tone of the words entirely. He lets a smile grow across his face. Fenris holds his gaze for a second before looking away. Aumerle is suddenly embarrassed to have been caught staring.
Anders rolls with it, building off that energy. He looks away too and Richard changes the subject quickly, a bit too quickly. “I weep for joy to stand upon my kingdom once again-”
The speakers, which had been playing light ocean sound effects to compliment the scene, static and abruptly blare a triumphant trumpet call. Anders grits his teeth to keep from busting out laughing and losing the scene entirely. Fenris rolls his eyes.
“Come on, Daisy!” Varric yells from somewhere in the wings.
“Sorry! I’m not sure what I did! Hang on, I think I’ve got it-” Merrill’s voice echoes down from the tech booth at the back of the auditorium.
The trumpets cut out abruptly.
Before Anders can open his mouth to resume the scene they start again- loud enough to make everyone wince before it switches back to ocean sounds.
The ghost trumpeters burst in a few more times until the fourth or fifth interruption, halfway through Anders’ deaths of kings monologue, prompts Fenris to break character.
“Just turn the damned thing off!” he snarls, all trace of Aumerle’s youthful sweetness gone like it never existed.
Anders had privately been thinking the same thing. Merrill was sweet but she was a terrible sound-tech. Still, he’s offended on her behalf. Fenris could be a bully sometimes. “There’s no need to be a dick about it,” he mutters, just loud enough that Fenris can hear him.
“What was that?”
The trumpets start beatboxing.
“Okay guys, take a break.” Hawke appears from the wings, headset slung around her neck, cutting across the corner of the stage and hopping down off the edge with the ease of long practice. “Go grab a snack or something while we sort this out. We’ll start again in half an hour.”
Fenris growls and storms off in the opposite direction, muttering to himself.
The whiplash of the shift between Aumerle, the best friend with a crush, who stares at Anders- at Richard- like he hung the stars in the sky, and Fenris, the castmate and all-around bastard, is jarring. It leaves a weird, hollow feeling in the pit of Anders’ chest.
If nothing else, it proves that Fenris is a hell of an actor.
They make it through hell week and dress rehearsal as they always do- shoving, cursing, pissing each other off- but they make it, and the rush of elation and exhaustion that hits Anders at first curtain call on opening night is better than heroin.
That’s always the moment of truth. It doesn’t matter how good you think you’re doing when you’re on stage. The audience is the judge, jury, and executioner. Plenty of times he’s thought he killed it only to be greeted by a lukewarm smattering of applause. The sweep of hands you thought looked majestic might have made you look stupid from the back row. A scream that should have shaken the rafters might have barely carried. You never, ever know. It’s like gambling your life savings on the lottery every single night.
And maker, he loves it.
He had been fretting over his final monologue all through the last few scenes. He didn’t like the way, “Time is wasting me,” had come out. His tongue couldn’t quite make it come across the way it did in his head- amused and melancholy all at once- had it just been flat? While Sebastian’s King Henry closed things out on stage, accepting his stolen crown with the same fanfare Anders’ Richard had opened the show with, Anders changes from his tattered prisoners’ rags back into his King’s robes for curtain call. His hands move without thinking, his mind elsewhere. He needed to do that line differently tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ve wasted time, now time is wasting me. Time is wasting-” he mutters to himself, standing backstage in nothing but his briefs. “I’ve wasted time, now-”
He hands Isabela the rags and holds his arms up like an obedient toddler for her drop the heavy gold brocade robe over his head. She has to stand on a folding chair to reach. He offers her a hand to step back down and then turns around so she can fasten the ties around his waist. Someone sets a prop coronet on his head.
“You did fine,” She swats him, scolding, on the butt. “Quit worrying.”
He steps into the boots she offers him as he straightens his hair and wipes a finger under his eyes to tidy up his makeup. A distant cheer from the audience heralds the end of the last scene just as Hawke appears at his elbow, the tiny red light on her headset a beacon in the dark, and points him toward his mark for curtain call.
Most everyone else is still onstage from the final scene. They flow into the wings in a sweeping tide of skirts and doublets, exchanging pointed looks and low fives, as the stage goes dark and the curtain drops. Everyone shuffles into their rows. Ensemble goes out first, most of their tracks cover multiple roles. Anders is last out, just after Fenris and Sebastian.
From the wing Anders watches Fenris take his bow. He drops his leg back behind him when he does it, like a dancer. The audience cheers.
Anders thinks they did well, the kiss had gotten a spontaneous round of wild applause and shouting. When Fenris was revealed as Anders’ killer in the dungeon scene there had been audible shock. He thinks they did well. He hopes they did well. He hopes-
And then it’s his turn. His feet move him automatically because if he has to think about curtain call he won’t move. No matter how well he thinks he’s done there is always, always, this tiny part of him afraid that the second he walks out the applause will stop cold and someone will start throwing rotten fruit.
The cheering cranks up a notch and the rush that passes through him in that moment is better than any orgasm he’s ever had.
Anders smiles. Like a switch being flipped, he is suddenly happy, high on being adored. These people are cheering for him, he’s done well.
He takes his bow, unable to resist a happy little shimmy from side to side while he does so. They like him. He's done well.
On impulse he sidles up to Fenris and drops an arm around his shoulder. The crowd goes wild.
A mischievous little curl in the corner of Fenris’ mouth is all the warning he gets before Anders finds himself being spun and dipped. He lets out squawk of alarm, one hand flying to keep the crown on his head. For half a second he thinks- wild with panic- that Fenris is supplexing him into the boards in some bizarre show of acting dominance and he grabs at the elf’s shoulders determined to take him down with him, but there is an arm around his waist, holding him up while his feet scrabble awkwardly for balance and then-
Fenris kisses him.
It’s a complete stage kiss. Dry, mouth shut, showy without being overly satisfying. A chaste press of lips totally at odds with how very close Fenris’ hand is to his ass.
By the time Anders has processed what’s happened Fenris has swung him back up onto his feet. He’s still grasping the crown on his head like an utter tit.
And the audience- dear maker- they’ve gone insane. People are screaming like he’s Tom Hiddleston at Comic Con. Like David Bowie has appeared from the afterlife to bless their stage and he’s not wearing pants. There’s laughter, wild cheering. People are standing- they’re getting a standing ovation.
And Fenris- Fenris is laughing like the naughty little bastard he is.
Anders is so getting him back for this .