anders: hawke all ur shirts r 2 big 4 me
You didn’t need a dwarven biographer with a thing for crossbows to know that Hawke was peculiar.
Anders would have felt it in all the places Hawke touched, the places he preferred to kiss. The small of Anders’s neck where it met the skin and the bristle of Hawke’s dark beard, the swell of his hot breath at the nape.
‘There are a few funny little freckles there,’ Hawke explained. ‘If you draw a line between them, they look just like a blight wolf.’
‘I…have no idea if that’s a compliment,’ Anders said.
‘Just the truth,’ Hawke replied. ‘The compliment would be Anders, I like your skin better than sandwiches.’
Your collarbone feels like the flat edge of an old blade, he said. When I count your ribs it’s oddly soothing, he said. Did you know your hair smells of sewage and Fereldan under-arms and I’m starting to grow disturbingly attracted to it, he said.
‘Nothing about my eyes?’ Anders asked.
Hawke paused to think. ‘I like them best when they aren’t all glowy.’
When you write at my desk I feel sorry for it, he said. When you pay more attention to your manifesto and don’t use a scratchy quill to put ink all over me I get terribly jealous, he said. When you wear one of my shirts and it feels too big I want to kiss the blight wolf on your neck, he said.
Anders put down the quill. If Hawke was a proper pet and less of a mabari, it wouldn’t be about barks and licks and distractions. He’d just crawl into Anders’s lap and that would be the end of it.
But Hawke came up behind him—he always had—and wrapped him in his arms. Counting his ribs. Touching his collarbone. Kissing his blight wolf until all Anders’s pages felt full again.