Pairing/Details: Garrett/Anders fluff. Oh, Maker it’s so fluffy. Mildly suggestive.
Other: Flutiebear is absolutely amazing and deserves so many wonderful things and nothing I can do will be enough. *hugs*
There are no straight lines to guide him, but straight lines are overrated, Garrett thinks.
“They’re for people with no imagination,” he says it with a profound sense of profundity, pulling his knife away so that he can admire his handiwork on the main pillar of the Hanged Man.
“HAW?” Anders squints up at the etching, which is admittedly overshadowed by a rather splendid pair of breasts, the artist of which having taken advantage of the natural contours of the wood to create impressive amounts of dimension and although Garrett can’t blame Anders for staring, he wishes he would stop. “Um…,” his eyes dart back to Garrett’s face. ” Let me guess- ‘HAWKE WAS HERE- EVERY NIGHT FOR ALMOST A DECADE’.”
“Heh. You’ll see,” Garrett returns to his task, arm going up to support his weight as he continues and it’s a smile that unfurls itself when he feels fingers catching the hem of his tunic, not to get his attention but to claim. He’s been claiming all evening, his hands running along Anders’ thigh, the intensity of his fondling growing in direct proportion to the number of times Evelyn sloshes ale on the table in front of them. “You have nice thighs,” Garrett murmurs and is forced to catch a sigh before it escapes when Anders responds with exploration of his own, his palm sliding along the curve of Garrett’s ass and his touch trailing intensity along the adjacent muscles.
Be careful, Hawke. You’re not hidden behind a table anymore, and Isabela is surely lurking about, ready to gawk and tease.
But careful is tricky when he’s had so much to drink and not even Anders is minding his behavior this evening, his own stretch of table laden with mugs and the high pink of his cheeks, the gleam in his dark eyes and a grin that is half adoration, half insinuation makes it difficult for Garrett to focus his complete attention on his task.
Which leads to, “I thought Hawke was spelled with an e.”
“Pardon?” Garrett continues to shape the next word, already on the second letter, his fingers brushing at the shavings as he goes. “Of course it has an e. We’re people, not birds. Well, I’m a person. They’re still looking into Carver’s situation.”
Anders laughs at that and when Garrett glances down he loses all reference but one, the happy face of an unhappy man who is possibly learning to be otherwise. It’s been almost a year, after all, and so many mornings start with this face, or a glimpse of this face, half-buried in a pillow as he draws Garrett closer, if closer is possible, and it seems like almost a year of excellent starts, of sleep-warmed tongues brushing along sensitive skin and lazy fumblings, should have started turning the tide of unhappy.
“Perhaps you should have Carver help, then,” Anders props his elbow on the table and rests his cheek against his palm. “Because right now you are talking about a bird. Plus, Carver seems like he’d be a natural…carver.”
With another unsteady return to his work, Garrett sees the truth. “HAWK LO" plain as plain and there is no room to cram an extra letter anywhere in there.
“Balls.” His shoulders sag with the realization that there’s probably a reason why most of the graffiti in the Hanged Man, with the exception of Isabela’s many odes to the collective attractiveness of her friends, is absolute and incomprehensible shit. Something about the state necessary to think graffiti is a good idea being the precise state when things like grammar and the ability to correctly spell one’s own name have faded into non-existence. So, of course, he blames Anders. “It’s because you’re watching me.”
Anders is not offended. “I can only see it when you wobble left. For the most part, I’m watching your ass,” the last is purred and accented with a sharp flick against the lower curve of Garrett’s backside. “Isabela’s right about this one.”
“It is luscious,” Garrett can hardly say the word without laughing. “And having you stare at it isn’t helping either,” he feigns a pout that is no doubt undermined by the uncontrollable twitching at the corners of his mouth as it gives into mirth. “Eyeing me as if I’m nothing more than a piece of meat.”
This gets Anders to his feet, even more unsteady a spectacle than Garrett on his knees on a barstool.
“It’s never bothered me to be viewed as such,” he lifts his arms, still thin even after a year of rich breakfasts and multiple course dining, and jokingly flexes them. “Try not to die of jealousy.”
And he smiles a smile that is something like breathtaking. Most people who are that drunk look as if they’ve been hit upside the head with a rank fish and are expecting it to happen again, and at any moment. Anders, though, is beatific in his flushed rumpledness, poking fun at himself as he watches his lover work and somehow never losing that halo of happy that seems less and less fleeting by the minute.
Garrett should stop. He should fall down from his stool and replace his knife with Anders’ hand, to better guide him straight out of the Hanged Man and to their home and their bed and then do everything he can to prolong this mood, this magic that is more than loosened inhibitions- progress.
It’s a moment he’s been waiting for since that first one, when they met and Anders lived up to every image of renegade-Warden turned selfless-healer that Garrett could possible conjure and a few things, such as handsomeness, that he wasn’t yet inclined to. Years of apart and longing, followed by a year of together and still longing because together could only change so much and falling asleep protected and protecting in the arms of the person whose arms fit you so well resulted in excellent mornings but not a better world.
Some men were fine with excellent mornings, of simply being alive and not alone. Garrett, on most days, would happily stop there.
Anders, though, wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Can’t and won’t. And that’s why the years of aching that no one else could satisfy. That’s why the mornings have to be so excellent, and why Garrett is drunk now and torn between the man and the gesture, which is a foolish gesture but the most sincere.
As if sensing the indecision, Anders staggers back towards the pail closets, laughing and swearing that when he’s done, Hawke’s done.
And he is.
The unveiling is anti-climatic but the yield is perfect- an arm around Garrett’s waist and that newfound light sustained as they stumble out of the Hanged Man together. Straight lines home are forgotten as secluded alleys and alcoves beckon them and their sated hearts become restless hands and lips that turn Lowtown into their home, when they know that the estate will be there when they need it, and the rough walls into their bed, Anders’ doffed pauldrons sparing them scrapes on their cheeks, their knees, and the bed will embrace them when the time comes, when their very not straight path finds them falling in together and waking up the same.
And an excellent morning will start, Anders’ flushed face half-buried in a pillow and Garrett wishing that this could be their everything, this faultless tangle of breath and limbs, and later over sausage and eggs Anders will laugh, that beautiful sound from deep within him, and shake his head.
“HAWK LOVE ANDER? Really?”
“He does. And this Ander is a lucky man to have it acknowledged in such a classy fashion.”
“I know,” his voice will be thick with everything those words mean, even as his mouth is still angled in a smile that proves the world has yet to reclaim him. “He really is.”