"You don't have to be good at it, Love." Hawke's breathing still stutters in his chest and his voice is uneven and liquid, but his dam had shorn up more quickly than Chris', for good or ill. Maybe it was just not quite as full, he's not sure and he's too worn to pursue that analogy further. "You don't have to be a king. You just have to be. That's all anyone should ask."

He means it, too. He means it with every nerve. Chris is just Chris to him, and that's all he's ever wanted.

"I'm so sorry. I know how much he means to you." The fingers in Chris' hair move a little, gentle strokes, while his other hand remains securely coiled in the cleric's grasp. He can't help but wonder, though, if Caleb was actually transported home through the door. He's not sure he should ask or if it would make things worse somehow.

The quiet of the surf and the few errant sea birds reigns for a moment and Hawke's fingers continue to bury themselves in Chris' hair, finding the back of his love's neck and pressing gentle circles there.

"... You're not bad at it."