all these sweater anders are making me so happy ;u;
FORGIVE ME FOR REBLOBBLING THIS TWICE CHUMBLRS. this has just, anders in a sweater, my head, all day, this moment, i can’t. i must.
In the winter, Anders sleeps in a sweater three sizes too big for him. He likes that it’s itchy, the soft weave against the rough, and the long sleeves rolled down over his fingertips, getting in the way when he brushes his teeth.
He rolls the sleeves back to make tea, poking the chamomile bag with one chopstick, watching as each fresh cloud bursts loose in the hot water. He breathes in, the steam against his face.
Sometimes, an empty apartment is a cozy one, hot mug in one hand, a cat napping in the slant of lazy light bolting over the windowsill. Anders can leave the bed unmade and the pillows thrown everywhere, just as lazy as his cat, a mess he knows and lives and mostly understands. He steps over the receipts from take-out and the scattered notepads, newspaper clippings and full articles and magazines, balled up socks forgotten amidst the occasional dust-bunny.
Pounce bats them between his paws in the late afternoon before he sneezes and gets bored with the game.
They’re almost friendly.
Sometimes, an empty apartment is like an empty sweater, a stiff futon rolled up messy in one corner, change lost between the cushions of the sofa. Andersfound that sofa on a streetcorner, just as lonely as he was, and Garrett and his brother helped him drag it back home, to replace the folding chairs he used to keep in his living room.
But when Anders turns his face against his shoulder, the sleeve slips down over bare skin, and the smells of the previous owner—soap and shampoo and laundry detergent—make him warm all over again.
Later, when the doorbell rings, Anders buzzes Garrett in. ‘I was wondering where that sweater went,’ he says, before Anders leans up and kisses him.