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They whisper about him, in Dock Town. A quiet awe in their voices that makes Sebastian's blood boil unbearably hot in his veins.
The words try so very hard to claw their way out of his throat, don't you know what he's done? only restrained by the cage of his gritted teeth. It wouldn't matter, to these people. It already doesn't matter in Tevinter, but down here, where they know him as the man who mends their wounds and tends to their sick? Never. Past and present blur before Sebastian's eyes, and sometimes it's hard to remember where he is. Kirkwall is leagues away, but it has followed both of them here, too.
Varric's missive is ash in the hearth of Sebastian's quarters in Starkhaven. The words still ring in his skull anyway. Minerva's voice, harsh and unforgiving, like she's standing right behind him.
But she isn't. She's gone. The first word he's gotten from anyone connected to Minerva Hawke in months (she's not Min, not to him, not anymore, and oh how that only aches more today), and it's to announce her death in as few words as Varric could stand to put on parchment for him.
The Inquisition has yet to respond to his overtures. There's no funeral that Sebastian will be invited to attend. No one wants him there. He understands, and instead he bribes his way onto a ship in the dead of night headed in a different direction. There's no army at his back.
All he has is Minrathous, an address, and someone who's presence at the funeral is just as unwanted as his.
He could've, should've, employed stealth. Sebastian knows. But by the time he tracks down the rundown clinic near the docks, Sebastian no longer cares. There's only rage, ancient and holy, flowing through his veins. The end of a story, held just out of the reach of his fingertips.
He doesn't knock. Simply shoulders the door open, the latch falling clean off from the impact. The man inside doesn't startle. Doesn't turn to look at him, just remains seated in his chair, shoulders slumped like someone waiting for the headman's axe.
Vengeance is a sin, Sebastian knows. There's no justice to be found in this city (and he ignores, carefully, the way the word justice sends shivers of horror down his spine at the very thought).
"So you've finally found me." Anders says, quiet and hollow. Not taunting, not like it would've been once. Just resignation rolling off the man in waves. Like Sebastian is an avenging angel come to deliver him from the agonies of the mortal coil. It's infuriating.
Getting this address had cost a pretty copper, enough to make a sizeable dent in Starkhaven's coffers. The Crow he'd met with had been young, eager to insert himself into the good graces of a foreign prince. Bold of him, really.
Sebastian tries not to think of what that makes him, now, resorting to such underhanded tactics. He'll have time to repent when this is over.
A voice that sounds like Elthina's whispers the Maker knows when you're lying, but for the first time he ignores it.
"Where were you?" He cuts to the chase, jerking Anders back by the collar. The mage is warm against him, like Minerva will never be again. Sebastian wonders if the feeling jars Anders, too, if it sets his nerves aflame.
Neither one of them dares speak her name.
"She said it wasn't safe, not with the taint still in my blood. Wouldn't hear otherwise." Anders' voice is hoarse, like it hasn't been used in too long. Like he's done nothing but sit and wait, throat full of words trapped there.
Memories flicker before Sebastian's eyes. Flashes of strawberry blonde and black hair splayed across his bare chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and pulling away with a smear of red. Promises mumbled into skin, I won't tell in two voices, and the sick twist of his insides at the undeniable proof that the two of them knew how to be secrets better than they knew how to be people. His pulse is loud in his own ears, and he knows deep down the rage isn't just about Elthina, isn't just about Minerva.
It's about the traitorous love that had laid curled up in his heart for the man before him, the love that had gone up in flames as surely as the Kirkwall chantry.
There are no arrows or armor here, just Sebastian's bare hands twisting in the fabric of Anders' robe. His knuckles turn bone white, and he yanks the other man up violently. Anders doesn't make a sound, doesn't blink. It's too much to bear, digs and claws past Sebastian's ribcage right to where his heart beats the rhythm of grief. They've been here before.
"You should've died with her." He says, voice cracking. I'm glad you didn't, he doesn't say, the words rotting where they sit on his tongue. Words from another man, one he hasn't known how to be in moons.
Anders finally looks back at him, horribly familiar and a complete stranger all at once. "Yes. But she was never very good at letting me die when I should have, was she?"
The jape is ugly, dull. Anders doesn't flinch when Sebastian jerks him closer, just accepts it like his debt has finally come due. It makes everything worse, and when Sebastian's fist lands with a loud crack across Anders' jaw, an emptiness grows in the hollow of his chest. There's no satisfaction in any of it, just brutal violence that filters out of his cracked heart down into his fists.
They're right back where they were in Kirkwall, the city itself etched onto their bones like a curse. Only this time the voice saying What vengeance is there to killing a man who asks for it? is just an echo in his skull; there's no furious green eyes tearing his wretched heart in two, no bloodstained hands on his arm begging him to stop. She's never coming back.
Gone slack in Sebastian's grip, Anders shoots him the unsettling ghost of a smile. "We'll get it right this time, won't we? No one to stop you."
Traitorous tears start to prick at the corners of Sebastian's eyes, only further feeding the need to feel something, anything but this. The kiss he drags Anders into is a punishment for both of them, he thinks. Anders' teeth are slick with his own blood by now, and it makes him feel sick with the familiarity of it. Still, he can't stop, can't pull away. This is the only thing that's felt real since he left Starkhaven.
Something comes to life in Anders, at last, and then he's pulling sharply at the hairs on the nape of Sebastian's neck. He realizes, when his back hits the aumbry behind him, that it's exactly like the first time.
Except for one detail: neither one of them tastes of Minerva, now.
It lights a pyre within him, and the kiss becomes a eulogy, spoken in tongues battling for dominance. When he threads his fingers through Anders' hair, he pulls just as hard as the other man did, neither of them giving an inch.
Anders touches him first, palming the erection Sebastian wishes he could will away through his trousers. "Is this what you came here for? One last tryst to keep to yourself, like it never happened?"
The words, spoken against his lips like a curse, send a jolt down Sebastian's spine.
"Were you planning on it dying with me?"
Time blurs again. One minute they're in a room at the Hanged Man, the next they're back in what amounts to a shack in Tevinter. The rage has long since bled out of him, leaving him with nothing but the agonizing want of an abandoned lover. The bare truth that it had never been just about Minerva, that he'd seen something worth protecting in Anders the way she did. Again, the old love rears its head, twisted and gnarled.
Like a man suddenly possessed, Sebastian fights back, goes further. Parts the other man's robe, shoves his hand past the waistband of Anders' pants and squeezes, drawing a wretched sound from him at last.
None of it's pretty or soft; Anders follows his lead, and then they're both giving each other the sort of friction that nears being unpleasant from the dry grips. Weak, shameful, Sebastian gives in to it, lets the pleasure coil low in his gut and tries to drag Anders over that same edge. The kiss is less of one now, more breathing into each other's mouths, chests heaving with it. It hurts, the way Sebastian doesn't think anything else could. It's like cutting yourself on shattered glass, trying to pick up the pieces barehanded, and he can't bring himself to stop.
Like he's won something, Anders drops to his knees, eyes lidded and dark. Hooks his fingers in Sebastian's waistband, exposes his cock fully with a sharp tug, a vicious smile spreading on his lips. Then, Sebastian feels the hot, wet heat of Anders' mouth around his cock, and he can't help but buck into it, shove himself deeper. Threads his fingers through blonde locks on both sides of Anders' head again, curls them around the root and pulls. Anders chokes, the sound wet and lewd, and when Sebastian frees him, he comes away with a dribble of cloudy spit rolling down his chin.
Sebastian watches, enthralled and feeling more than a little mad, as Anders leans back on his haunches, frees himself so he can lavish his own cock with lazy strokes.
"Is this what you wanted?" The look on Anders' face is mean, like he's pulled the pain from Sebastian's chest and put it on like a mask. There's no time to answer, not when Anders gets back to task almost as quickly as he'd stopped and Sebastian is left gasping.
The tears spill out from the corners of his eyes, hot and streaming. When Sebastian comes undone, it feels like his heart breaking.
He doesn't consider killing Anders once, and maybe that's the most shameful part of it. In the end, the worst thing Sebastian does that day is deny both of them closure. Leaves Anders alive and alone, leaves the proverbial string tying them to each other intact.
He sits there again, glaring a burning hole into Sebastian's back as he leaves. They're no better off than they started.