It's impulsive, and a little bit stupid, but Hawke's little touches don't feel like some new flirtation, he hasn't pulled back once, or shrugged off any licentiousness, or reclaimed his own personal space. His hand tightens around Hawke's fingers like a vice, and that's all the warning there is before he leans in.
There's a moment of hesitation right before he makes contact, even though the tilt of his head is obvious right now, long nose nearly brushed up against Hawke's beardless cheek. It's not borne of any lack of desire: he's never been of two minds about Hawke, right now literally less so than with any other kiss. He's just staving himself off for a fraction of a moment to give Hawke a chance to duck away, if he wants, with those split-second instincts honed by battle.
Then they're kissing, Anders' stubble-rough mouth hot compared to the cold of the air, yielding and desperate at the same time. It's much like the first time, years of pent up aching breaking through the dam and swallowing him in foolishness, Maker, Maker, Maker a litany in his head. He lifts his free hand, cup's Hawke's face. The texture is all wrong, but the taste of him, the press and feel of him — that's the same.
Hawke said not to apologize, so Anders keeps back the words, but they're on his lips all the same.
When he pulls back, the whole devastated world blinks back brightly into being, and after a moment where he just pants softly with his eyes wide, he ducks his head, gives a sheepish little chuckle. He's too old to be acting with romantic impetuousness more suited to Varric's books. ]
All right. Let's go back in.
[ Because if they stay out here and kiss some more they'll probably get themselves killed.
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It's impulsive, and a little bit stupid, but Hawke's little touches don't feel like some new flirtation, he hasn't pulled back once, or shrugged off any licentiousness, or reclaimed his own personal space. His hand tightens around Hawke's fingers like a vice, and that's all the warning there is before he leans in.
There's a moment of hesitation right before he makes contact, even though the tilt of his head is obvious right now, long nose nearly brushed up against Hawke's beardless cheek. It's not borne of any lack of desire: he's never been of two minds about Hawke, right now literally less so than with any other kiss. He's just staving himself off for a fraction of a moment to give Hawke a chance to duck away, if he wants, with those split-second instincts honed by battle.
Then they're kissing, Anders' stubble-rough mouth hot compared to the cold of the air, yielding and desperate at the same time. It's much like the first time, years of pent up aching breaking through the dam and swallowing him in foolishness, Maker, Maker, Maker a litany in his head. He lifts his free hand, cup's Hawke's face. The texture is all wrong, but the taste of him, the press and feel of him — that's the same.
Hawke said not to apologize, so Anders keeps back the words, but they're on his lips all the same.
When he pulls back, the whole devastated world blinks back brightly into being, and after a moment where he just pants softly with his eyes wide, he ducks his head, gives a sheepish little chuckle. He's too old to be acting with romantic impetuousness more suited to Varric's books. ]
All right. Let's go back in.
[ Because if they stay out here and kiss some more they'll probably get themselves killed.
Not that it wouldn't be very worth it. ]