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Anders is not obsessed with him. In fact, not only is he not obsessed - he doesn't care at all. He doesn't even think about him.
Ever.
Not when he's going about his daily routine, mopping up patients' blood and other, more pungent bodily fluids. Not when he's shopping in Lowtown for crafting reagents, or mixing those ingredients and storing them in haphazardly labelled pouches and bottles. Not when he's out with Hawke, calling fire and lightning upon bandits and thieves, nor when he's drinking with Varric at the Hanged Man. He doesn't even think about him when he has to heal his wounds in battle and ignore the thankless glare he gets in return.
He especially doesn't think about him when he's alone at night, in bed and wide awake despite his physical exhaustion. He doesn't think about honed muscle shifting beneath perfectly tanned skin, or irises so brilliantly green that he has to force his own eyes away at times. He doesn't think about words, often harsh and biting, but delivered in the smoothest baritone that's ever graced his ears and that sends his blood rushing instantaneously downward. He doesn't think about carefully placed lines of lyrium, or how they would feel under his desperate hands or his lips or his tongue.
Anders doesn't slide his hand under the blanket to wrap his fingers around his cock, or smooth precum over the head with his thumb. He doesn't imagine the other man's lips barely brushing his ear, words flowing in that delicious tremor, telling him he's wanted this, needed this for so fucking long. He doesn't tighten his grip as he strokes himself, aching to feel the other man's cock pushing to enter him, to feel the slow burning heat of being stretched, of being filled, of being handled roughly and properly fucked. He doesn't have to bite his tongue to hold back Fenris's name when he spills himself into his hand, cum hot and slick. He doesn't drift quickly to sleep thinking about him, either.
Anders is not obsessed... though he may be in denial.