Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you; tomorrow, I’ll miss you—
‘Too close to poetry,’ Varric muttered. ‘Needs a poorly tuned lute and a bard with funny hair and then it’ll work.’
You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss—
‘Rivaini’s naughty poetry’s rubbing off on me,’ Varric said, and sighed a deep sigh.
Kiss me, Hawke thought, and you will see how important I am—
‘Now that’s a little too melodramatic, even for you, you old womp mallet.’
‘You need kissing. Badly,’ Hawke said, looking deep into Anders’s eyes. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’
‘…Closer,’ Varric said. ‘Sounds almost familiar, though.’
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
‘If that prose gets any purpler…’ Varric paused to take off his spectacles, to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re going to need Blondie to heal it like a bruise, that’s what. You’re going to match Hawke’s decor, and then he’s never going to let you leave.’
‘I’d rather kiss a Wookiee,’ Anders said.
‘…I don’t even know what a Wookie is,’ Varric told the vellum; after that, the page was finished, over, done with, ruined by babble—but then again, when wasn’t it?—and he tossed it into the fire. Time to start fresh. In the embers, rebirth. In the ashes, flames could ignite. …Or something like that.
Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.
‘Huh,’ Varric said.
‘Needs more tongue,’ Isabela told him, chin suddenly on his shoulder. ‘More biting. More dueling lips and scraping beards and teeth.’
‘They’re kissing each other, not having a midnight snack,’ Varric replied.
‘Just think of it like this: Hawke imagined Anders tasted like the very best sandwich he’d ever had…’ Isabela’s laughter ghosted like fire over Varric’s jaw. ‘I’d offer more, but then I’d have to start charging you a percentage in royalties.’
Varric could never tell her this, but actually…Isabela was onto something.
Later, in the dead of night, flames ignited in the quiet ashes:
That day, Anders was amazed to discover that when Hawke was saying ‘Want a sandwich,’ what he meant was, ‘I love you.’ And even more amazing was the day Anders realized he truly wanted that sandwich.