Talking about their lives before the Circle is usually much too painful and a subject best avoided, but something about the embroidered blanket peeking out from under Karl's pillows makes it tempting for once. Because the man under Anders is also an Anders, but the kind that is an Anders only due to being from the Anderfels, and not also because he choose to call himself that to remember, and to have something left that the templars could not take from him.

"You know", he says, head resting on Karl's chest, "my mother wanted to name me Ásketill."

Karl continues to stroke his hair, the rhythm of his heart unchanged, and asks the question without hesitation. "Did she, then?"

"No." Anders sighs. "Something worse."

Perhaps because his father had not liked the connections of the name his mother had liked, had not liked it either because it was not his idea or perhaps because he had wanted something manlier for his first born son. His father had been the sort to scoff at all things not suitably masculine, after all. He should see him now, in robes so similar to a dress, and almost allowing feelings to show.

"They were… old fashioned." They as in both of them although one more so than the other, and were because he will not allow himself to think that he still has parents somewhere. It is easier to think of it as a loss similar to a death, than to face how willingly he was given away.

"How old fashioned?" Karl does not let go of Anders' hair as he pulls himself upwards to first kiss him, and then to whisper a name into his ear; a name that is much more a secret now than it ever was a name.

Karl laughs when the secret is told. "That old fashioned."

"I know," Anders replies with indignation, "surely you understand now why it must stay a secret. That is not a name to call out in the throes of passion!"

The way Karl whispers his name is much better than anything ever called out in passion, though. It is soft and sweet, spoken like a promise. Any and all secrets will be safe with Karl.

But they themselves are not safe, not here and not with what they choose to share of and with each other. This is too close, already touching the heart. Outside the tower and away from all its dangers, Anders would let himself have a proper heart, and he would let this devour it. He knows that those are dangerous wishes and thoughts, but pressed against Karl, tracing the contour of his beard between kisses, he cannot bring himself to chase such wishes and thoughts away.

This is not because they are both Anders, because they both share faded embroidery and memories of a dry cold so different from Ferelden's wet and muddy sort. They are more than that, and they share more than that. And having Karl's arms securely wrapped around him warms him more than any blanket, the moments where he is resting his head against his chest dearer than any pillow could ever be. Somewhere else he would give and be given more, and he will never fully give up on that longing.

"Come with me, next time," he says with his hands cupped around Karl's face and with all the seriousness he can invoke, and no seductiveness at all. Because this is not about that.

After a moment filled with fond silence, and after an even fonder kiss, Karl sighs a no. "You know I can't."

Anders smiles, despite the no. The pause had been much longer this time. He would come around eventually.