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“Anders?”
Anders does his best to ignore the singsong voice, much as he’s been stolidly ignoring the rest of the house for the past few hours. He has, after all, a manifesto to complete, and focusing is hard enough right now without the best efforts of his lover.
Even, of course, as the man plunks himself down on the desk next to where Anders is working, swinging his legs like a boy twenty years younger. “Anders, love? Dear? Darling?” he continues. “... muffincakes?”
Anders taps his pen against the paper, not listening to him.
“I can keep this up all night, you know. If you don't answer me soon I'll get so sickeningly saccharine your teeth will fall out on the spot, oh dear darling light of my life.”
“I’m writing,” Anders says, flicking a thumb over the down of his quill and determinedly not looking up at the man beside him.
“No, my cherished and beloved one, you were writing.” He crosses his legs. “About thirty minutes ago, by my estimate.”
“I’m thinking,” Anders replies.
“I’m thinking too, sweetheart. Mostly, I’m thinking how fantastic you would look in my bed right now.”
Anders finally looks up. “Hawke.”
“Don’t you ‘Hawke’ me.” He leans back. “If you really wanted to avoid distractions, you’d have shut yourself in one of the spare rooms. If you were feeling inspired, you’d be writing in bed with the lamp. But instead, you’re sitting here.” He grabs one of the spare quills, holding the feather to Anders’ face. “Which means you, handsome, are stuck , and you’re punishing yourself for being stuck by staring parchment into submission.”
Anders doesn’t respond.
“You know I’m right.” Hawke lets the feather dip to tickle the tip of Anders’ nose. “But I think a little sleep would be much better for recharging your muse, wouldn’t it?” He pauses. “... strawberry cream?”
“... you’re just listing off desserts now,” Anders says, trying and failing to keep the laugh from his voice.
Hawke grins, leaning unabashedly towards him. “"Butterscotch pie. Custard tartlet. Apple strudel ."
“You’re impossible,” Anders tells him, lips quirking.
“And you’re about to fall asleep at your desk, oh he of the delightfully sparkly fingers, master of cats, healer of renown, awe-inspiring apostate and my very favorite nightlight.”
“... Did you say that all in one breath?”
“I'll have you know that I have excellent lung capacity, dear heart.” He leans in. “Come to bed and I'll show you.”
Anders can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, setting down his pen at last. “I suppose I’d better, or you might strain something.” He stands, helping Hawke down from his awkward perch.
“That’s the spirit!” Hawke slings an arm over his shoulder, tugging him gently in the direction of the stairs.
Anders follows, leaning in towards the other man. “I love you, you know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of Hawke’s neck.
“I love you too,” Hawke returns, giving him a brief squeeze before reluctantly pulling away to open the bedroom door. Anders follows, smiling as he begins to shed his outer layers, already anticipating the softness of the sheets and the warmth of a lover, and wondering how he could have been so reluctant in the first place. They fall into bed together, Anders snuffing the candles with the wave of a hand, feeling the press of Hawke’s lips against his shoulder, trailing kisses down his skin.
“... ‘honey!’ How could I have forgotten that one?”