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Tarquin wakes with a jolt, his back mage-staff straight and one hand fumbling at his side for the hilt of a sword, but all he finds are soft sheets bunched up in his fist.
He gulps in quick breaths in time with the frantic pitter-patter of his heart, disoriented for another moment before the post nightmare haze clears enough to return him to the unfamiliar room he’s in.
The bed he’s sitting on is far too soft and big to be his own. Not only that; the space itself is an actual bedroom, exclusively meant to be a comfortable place to rest, instead of everything someone owns dumped between four walls.
Most telling about where he is, though, apart from the Viper’s cape and hat placed on a chaise longue in the corner, is the man sleeping peacefully next to him in bed.
Ashur.
Tarquin fights back a groan as the memories of yesterday and them making their way to the Divine’s quarters come back to him.
Taking another breath—deeper, calmer now—Tarquin rubs a hand across his eyes, chasing away the last remnants of sleep and blurry fragments from whatever dream woke him, before he slumps back against the headboard.
The shift makes him realize just how sore he is after last night. Ashur healed him up as nicely as anyone could after what Tarquin went through—turns out fighting eight Venatori at once and alone was a bit too ambitious even for him—but there’s still a massive bruise blooming across his chest after he took a big boot to the sternum. The ribs he cracked are barely noticeable, though. Only a dull ache across his torso remains, easy enough to ignore for a man who’s used to chronic pain on the regular.
Tarquin lifts a hand, gently touching his bottom lip where it had been split open and kept bleeding last night. That one’s all patched up too. Nasty as the wound had been, it probably won’t even leave a scar, thanks to Ashur’s fine work.
Not that Tarquin was unaware of the status of his mouth. He’s already spent a fair amount of time using it last night, making out with Ashur as they got into bed, kissing deep and hungrily for so long Tarquin’s jaw ached with it.
It wasn’t the first time they’ve kissed, but it is the first time they’ve slept together.
Which is truly all they did last night.
Slept together.
Tarquin is still baffled about that part.
He’d been so sure when they went to bed that it would finally be when whatever’s been building between them led to sex. He’d braced himself for it, in a way. It’s been a while since Ashur first leaned in and kissed him up on a rooftop during a stakeout, but since then, there hasn’t been the time or place for them to do much else. Sort of a blessing. Sort of anxiety inducing when it’s also led to Tarquin waiting for it to just be over with.
Tarquin would have done it, too—given in, despite the consequences that are sure to follow after something so idiotic. Nothing good can come from sleeping with your boss. Or someone you consider your friend. Maybe the best friend you have, or have ever had. He can’t think about that for too long, though, without wanting to fling himself off a tall cliff near the docks and into the freezing waters below.
The confusion had been immense when after pressing Tarquin back into the pillow with a hard kiss, Ashur’s hands had stayed by Tarquin’s face. Cupping his jaw, pressing his thumb beneath his chin to tilt his face up for a better angle and kiss him deeper. Sliding his fingers back to play with his hair and stroke his palm down to Tarquin’s shoulder, but never making any moves to remove either of their sleeveless tunics; never touching lower than where Tarquin’s own hands rested wrapped around Ashur’s back, holding him close.
If there was any impatience or frustration, Ashur didn’t show it.
Finally, as their breaths slowed and kisses turned lazy, Ashur had simply taken Tarquin’s hand in his, tangled their fingers together and pressed a final soft kiss to his lips. Then he’d shifted them around, spooned up against Tarquin’s back, wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled him close against his chest.
Tarquin had still been trying to process what was happening when Ashur murmured sleepily, “Goodnight,” and placed a kiss to his shoulder, then soon fell asleep with his breath warming Tarquin’s skin where Ashur’s nose was tucked against the crook of his neck.
Like that’s all it needs to be.
Kissing for the sake of kissing, and nothing else. Like there’s no endpoint to doing it, no goal to reach. As if a man could not only allow but want that to be all there is to it. Affection so gentle it makes Tarquin feel exposed and raw, skin sensitive worse than sitting out in the burning sun for days on end, isn’t supposed to have a place between people like them.
He looks down at Ashur where he’s sprawled out on the bed on his back, one arm outstretched across the mattress, like he’s reaching for Tarquin even in his sleep.
The guy’s gotta be exhausted, given that he didn’t startle awake when Tarquin flung himself up. Instead Ashur’s eyes are still closed, his lips a little parted where he’s turned towards the pillow. Tarquin holds back a snort when he spots a tiny wet spot on the fabric—he’d bet good money not many people in Thedas would believe him if he told someone that the Divine drools in his sleep.
Something stings in Tarquin’s chest at the sight, unrelated to any lingering injuries he may have.
It’s so strange to trust someone enough to sleep next to them like this.
Not just for his own sake, but the fact that Ashur is lying here too, deep asleep, completely comfortable with having Tarquin in his bed, even at his most vulnerable state.
Tarquin doesn’t know what to do with that.
Like so many times before, he wonders what the fuck Ashur even wants from him.
Skittish at the unfamiliar feeling of comfort, he glances at the bedroom door, only to realize he doesn’t even know where it leads. They’re at the Divine’s Manor, that much he’s aware of, but they’d come in through an underground tunnel, its entrance perfectly hidden beneath a trap door in the bathroom connected to the bedroom.
Meaning, Tarquin couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. He’s sure there are servants and bodyguards who wouldn’t take kindly to an unknown man wandering the halls out there, and Ashur had used his own blood to be let through three separate magical barriers down in the tunnels.
He should feel trapped, backed into a corner. There’s no option other than to wait and face Ashur once he wakes up. Tarquin can’t slip out of bed and sneak away, can’t pretend that last night didn’t happen. Not that it would even matter. It’s not like that would make him forget how he’d turned over at one point in his sleep, tucked himself against Ashur’s chest and tangled their legs together, got his arm around him and his nose against Ashur’s chest, feeling a sense of safety around another person he’s never experienced before.
Tarquin should be having a fucking meltdown about all of this right now.
So much about Ashur should scare the living shit out of him. It’s been a long time since Tarquin felt like anything in life could get to him; he’s been sliced apart and put back together enough times he fears no injuries, witnessed close friends and comrades get blown to shreds or tortured in front of him. Much as he wants to believe in the possibility of making the world a better place, the world has done enough terrible things to him that he never defaults to expecting kindness.
Yet, here’s Ashur.
Crashing into his life out of nowhere, just about when Tarquin had settled into acceptance of what the rest of his future was going to be like. A boring yet somewhat steady job down at the Archives, his daily routine predictable enough from living alone and having no one else to take into account. Heading to the pub every now and then to get drunk when he’s feeling too much, or to get in a fight when he’s not feeling anything at all.
Getting recruited into becoming a fucking freedom fighter and suddenly having a cause to believe in was never part of the plan. He didn’t count on finding a purpose, not even friends, and certainly not whatever Ashur is to him, when he moved to Minrathous.
All of his life has always been about surviving.
He’s never been able to afford to want more.
As if hearing the gears turn in Tarquin’s head, the sped up beating of his heart as anxiety grows in him, Ashur finally stirs next to him. He wakes with a little noise, blinking sleepily a few times before his gaze finds Tarquin and a smile spreads on his face.
“Morning, handsome,” Ashur murmurs.
Tarquin can’t stop the disbelieving noise he lets out, then most definitely doesn’t do something as stupid as blush over that line.
Ashur only continues watching him in silence, still smiling, before moving his palm across the mattress. He touches Tarquin’s forearm, strokes his hand through the dark hair there, then takes Tarquin’s hand in his own and interlaces their fingers.
Tarquin stares down at their joined hands—Ashur’s big fingers and soft pampered skin, holding Tarquin’s own pale and bruised knuckles.
So different, yet somehow they fit so perfectly together.
The same certainty Tarquin’s been trying so hard to ignore for so long creeps itself up through his chest again. It soothes the anxious thoughts spinning around in his mind, the part of him that keeps wondering what warning signs he’s missing—when this whole thing will turn on its head, when he’ll be abandoned and alone again while Ashur moves on, barely remembering Tarquin in a year or two.
The fact is, that’s not how Ashur actually makes him feel.
And that’s the thing that really freaks Tarquin the fuck out—how it isn’t scary with Ashur. When he turns off the background noise of why he shouldn’t be doing this, why he can’t let himself trust this guy and what he stands for and what he willingly keeps offering up for Tarquin, all Tarquin feels is calm and safe and… happy. Or the closest thing to what it’d be like to imagine himself happy, at least. Like suddenly he’s found the missing information to make sense of everything he’s been through; bestowed with a certain understanding when it comes to the workings of life and all the ugly cruelty in it, where for once Tarquin thinks he might one day be able to make peace with his past and, ultimately, himself.
Like no shit his life has gone the way it has.
Of course things have never worked out before. No wonder he hasn’t been able to figure stuff out and patch the wounded pieces of his life back together and turn himself into something resembling a functional human being before. Of course he hasn’t made any successful attempts at anything resembling a relationship before.
He couldn’t have, because no one else has been Ashur.
Tarquin can’t even be too mad about them crossing paths so late in life. If he had met Ashur earlier, Tarquin surely would have fucked it up, miserable bastard that he’s been for so long. Maybe he still will do just that, given the horrible moods he gets in every now and then. Yet for some reason, the inevitable doom doesn’t feel like a given with Ashur.
Like for once, maybe Tarquin can actually get to keep something good.
Or at least allow himself to try, even with the knowledge that with vulnerability comes the opportunity to get your chest ripped open and insides gutted in a way no weapon on the battlefield could ever accomplish.
He squeezes Ashur’s hand back, and says, voice hoarse, “Mornin’.”
Ashur tilts his head on the pillow, expression filled with the open vulnerability he always so easily offers Tarquin as he studies him where Tarquin’s sitting up stiffly against the headboard. “Are you going somewhere?”
Perhaps whatever is happening between them is a terrible idea.
Ashur could leave, could stop loving him, could decide he’s plenty busy already with the Shadows and the Chantry. Not to mention the endless number of people already vying for his attention through every social aspect of his life—surely even Ashur must realize one day how many far better options there are for him to do this with.
Tarquin’s not used to letting himself care enough about something that he could get his heart broken over it, but why shouldn’t he do this? Isn’t losing things what he’s been doing his whole life? Endless loss is all he’s ever known. Losing his childhood to hating himself, losing his family because he decided to try to hate himself a little less. Losing his youth and good health fighting a war for a country that only would have cared if he died because it’d mean one less arm wielding a weapon. Only to then convince himself he’s gotten past all of that, when in reality, he’s simply continued losing the past years to being bitter and lonely and drunk.
Maybe this really will be what tears him apart in the end; this one thing he’s starting to allow himself to trust.
But maybe, even if Tarquin does lose him, for once the risk feels worth it.
If he loves Ashur and loses him, at least he will have had something worth cherishing and holding close to his heart in life.
“Nah,” Tarquin says and lays down on the bed again so he can scoot in close next to Ashur. He lets go of Ashur’s hand so he can reach up, brushes his thumb across Ashur’s eyebrow where he’s slept funny and some of the small strands are all messy. “It’s my day off. An’ I’m good right here.”
Ashur smiles wide, leans in and gives him a kiss, then wraps his arm around Tarquin’s waist and pulls him flush against his body.
Tarquin hugs him back, ducks down so he can get his nose tucked against Ashur’s neck, breathing him in.
He keeps his eyes closed, wants to say,
you smell so good it makes me feel insane,
I didn’t think I could trust a person the way I trust you,
my heart doesn’t know where to go in my chest when I’m near you.
But his throat’s all clogged up, like Tarquin doesn’t know how to form words anymore, so he stays silent.
Ashur’s hand strokes up and down his back, his lips pressing another kiss to the top of Tarquin’s head, and maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe he doesn’t need to say anything.
Ashur has always seemed to understand him anyway.
And, maybe, this says it all for both of them—knowing that no one else gets to sleep in the Divine’s chambers, and no one else gets to hold Tarquin like having love in his life is something he knows what to do with.