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It was one of the infrequent occasions when Hawke managed to arrange a getaway into the tavern for Anders and let him unwind after a busy day, since the clinic had been practically bursting with a chockablock of flooded visitors lately.
And so, having lost an immense amount of booze to Varric at cards, slightly tipsy, they were lying in an embrace in Hawke’s bed, listening to the silence, which was interrupted by the soothing crackle of the fireplace.
“Just a little more and I would’ve beaten the jackpot out of this dwarf for sure.” Anders muttered with a barely perceptible reproach in his voice, which ran through Hawke’s entire body with a pleasant vibration.
The latter was nodding with feigned regret and stroking the head lying on their chest, understanding perfectly well that if not for them, Anders’ last savings would’ve sunk into oblivion.
“Well, there’s something good in that. At least it’s Varric who’ll be dying of a hangover tomorrow, not you.”
“Fair enough.”
Anders clung even tighter to Hawke and they were again covered by a brief silence. The man felt a rising heat, not knowing exactly why: from the revelry of drunk ale or the embrace of his dear Champion, who was affectionately rubbing his back.
“It’s very warm here. Not at all like in the clinic. And you’re… very warm too.”
Anders couldn’t help but lightly rub his nose on Hawke’s collarbones.
“So stay here for good. There will always be a warm place for you under my side.”
“If I could just leave everything behind and devote all my time to you, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” Thoughts again forcibly plunged into the bustle of his lair, with an endless stream of sick beggars who annually fall under the blow of a winter epidemic, and Anders just sighed wistfully: “Not this time, my friend.”
“Friend?”, Hawke carefully climbed over Anders and sat, leaning over him, not daring to take hands off the lying for a minute, as if life depended on it. “It seemed to me that we’d passed this phase already.”
Fingertips slowly and insistently, but almost weightlessly, slid from the ears down the magician’s neck, while the other hand crept to the side with careless stealth, softly stamping with fingers in its path.
The corner of Anders’ lips lifted subtly, as if saying “I know what you’re getting at” for him.
“Didn’t want to disappoint you, but I’m not ticklish.”
Hawke was taken aback by such a dubious, but self-confident statement. After hearing a mountain of stories about Anders’ frisky past, it did not fit in the head that this weasel hadn’t been involved in tickle fights.
Wasting no time to think, they reached down and suddenly grabbed the peacefully lying magician’s side, which made him jerk sharply and freeze breathless in mute horror, as if he realized something that had turned his idea of himself upside down.
“H-hawke, wait,” he suddenly came to his senses as something naughty on his ribs reminded of itself. “Put your hand away.” The former confidence seemed to have evaporated from the voice, and notes of warning began to be heard.
“So "not ticklish”?“
For another minute Hawk scrutinized the alarm, that appeared in the beautiful amber eyes below, and then his hand greedily went into revelry, kneading the sensitive sides with dancing fingers.
"Ah, no! Don’t!” the magician exclaimed and twitched, trying to get out or throw off the attacker, but all in vain. “That’s an unfair position!”
The hopelessness left Anders with no other choice. Poignantly twisting out of the grip, his hand reached to the tortmentor and dug the agile fingers into the hip, roughly crumpling the spot that emitted a tingly charge all over Hawke’s body.
“Bad idea.” Hawke sentenced. They’ve come to understanding now why Anders hadn’t been aware of his ticklishness: with that energy and hands dexterity, hardly anyone would dare to start such fight with him.
But Hawke was not of the timid sort. The Champion deftly intercepted the fugitive hand and folded with the other, pressing them both down with the knee, after which they began to pinch all over the openly defenseless side as they only pleased.
Like a babbling brook breaking through the cobblestones, ringing laughter got through Anders’s futile attempts not to break and spread throughout the room.
“Hawke, please!”
“But I haven’t found out properly if you’re ticklish or not yet.”
As if feeling Anders’s body like their own, without respite Hawke climbed under the ribs and digged around places that, it seemed, begged for peace themselves. The hand with a real exploratory spirit ran along the twitching side, from time to time inviting itself over the stomach and checking the back.
“Ugh!..Maker, you hahave!! Just stop this nonsense ahalready!”
Suddenly, a prolonged whine was heard outside the door. Hawke stopped and listened closely, finally letting Anders catch his breath. It was a door-scraping mabari who, having heard the laughter, felt an uncontrollable urge to join the fun.
“Alright, let’s stop now. The boy hears us and wants to play too.”
Hawke reluctantly got off their lover and lay down in the same position as before the mess, hugging Anders tightly.
“Seems like I know your body better than you do,” a self-satisfied grin was heard in still tender voice, causing Anders to blush. Here he had nothing to argue with, since he really didn’t know such details about himself.
A little distracted, he noticed that the whining outside the door was disappointedly subsiding, along with which he unwittingly remembered the previous, quieter pet.
“…and those clunkheads thought that Ser Pounce-a-lot had been making me soft?”
Hawke arched an eyebrow uncomprehendingly.
“They didn’t see what you are doing with me.”
The mentioned kitten once again reminded how much of childlike and gentle nature Hawke missed by not meeting Anders before. It’s become their main duty to stir up those lingering remnants which were hiding behind Justice, so they could not resist teasing a little:
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t know about your another soft spot as well, oherwise they would’ve done their utmost to get rid of this weakness. What do you think, should we invite our companions to help me with that?”
Anders jumped as if someone stepped on his tail, if he had one.
“Wha-…Oh Andraste, you’re not going to exploit it constantly, are you?” Hawke laughed and patted the blond head. “Just please, not in front of the others.”
The estate owner hurried to put the worried head back on their chest and kiss the forehead.
“Who would I be if I let someone other than myself see you being so charming?”
<…>
Time fled in a hurry, disposing its hour for deep nightly conversations. Hawke was lazily playing with the hair of the one lying next to him and monotonously telling him something, until they heard a quiet sniff. Anders was sleeping. The Champion couldn’t remember the last time they had seen such a serene mask on the loved face.
Hawke looked out the high window reflecting the all-consuming darkness, which was sprinkled with an overgrown snow blizzard. They looked there, into the cold, and were pacified by the fact that now he was not there, but with them — allowing to look at his endeared face caressed by the warm firelight.
Probably, the getaway was not in vain after all.