‘Cats scratch,’ Anders says. ‘Swords don’t scratch, they plunge.’
Daggers don’t scratch; they pierce. Axes don’t scratch; they cleave. Blades are meant to bury.
Healers heal. Champions hurt. There’s a wound in Hawke’s flank at the same height and the same depth as any unskilled, unprepared mage might be able to reach, holding a knife in sweaty hands, meant to cut elfroot–killing a friend instead.
Anders’s hands always have blood on them. Blood’s warm, at least until it’s cold.
Hawke’s breath is sharp, at least until it dulls. ‘Your feathers are soft, Anders,’ he says, and Anders mends the wound.
Flesh on flesh. Muscle to muscle. The extra padding Hawke has from a high life in Hightown. Anders held him by the hip once and held him close, fingers settling over hot skin freckled and scarred. He guided him into the bed and settled between his legs and kissed him where his hands had been, around to the front and his belly and his navel, to the dark hair on the insides of Hawke’s thighs. ‘You’re a tremendous healer, Anders,’ Hawke had mentioned, breathless. ‘I’d like it if you healed me all night long.’
Lovers save one another. They cover the wounds with their palms. The blood stays on the jerkin. There’s blood on Anders’s shoulder where Hawke buries his nose.
Queer Fortress 