museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

He massaged a spot on his temple. Andraste's tits, he had a hell of a headache coming on.

"Would you listen to yourself? You sound like there are only two options here."

The shift in position, the way he swirled his wine lazily in the glass, something in his eyes: they all spoke of Varric slipping into storyteller mode. Not entirely, but there was a thing that happened to his body language when he started drawing on stories and tales in his thinking.

"Jumping to conclusions based on skinmates never worked out well for anyone," he pointed out reasonably, using the borrowed Avvar term. "Either the Maker's a jackass, you're soulmates with a dead slaver, or I wasted fifteen years of my life. Doesn't mean we need to go jumping on ships or getting drastic haircuts or anything."

There was only one thing Fenris cared to say as he reached out and took hold of the wine bottle.

"You would look ridiculous with short hair."

Years of drinking his troubles away gave him a tolerance that was either a blessing or would one day decimate his liver. Either way, he drank deep of the bottle and stood to approach the fire.

He seized on the subject change more gratefully than a dying man offered water.

"I don't know, I thought that de Launcet kid had a stylish look."

Once his glass was drained, Varric had no choice but to join Fenris by the fire, if only to snatch the bottle and take a drink of his own.

"You'd look great with Meredith's ringlets."

"Yes, I would."

He grabbed the bottle back.

"Though I'd have to let Merrill braid it."

He snorted unattractively.

"Shit, can you imagine? She'd be happier than her little frolicking heart could take."

"She'd explode." And that thought had Fenris snorting, too, because he could just imagine the sound that would come out of her. Some sort of high-pitched 'eee' before she frolicked herself into her own doom.

That pulled a real laugh from him. Few things got to him quicker than Fenris's unexpectedly dry wit, a pleasant surprise every time. When he took the bottle back, he was gentler about it.

"While we're at it, we should get something pierced. You can't have a good rebellious makeover without at least two ill-advised piercings." He tapped his own pierced ears. "And I'd have to get creative."

"At least I have both ears. A ring on each tip might not be so bad." And then, with a sidelong glance and a smirk that was starting to ease (wine was good for something after all), he added, "Just don't tell me to get a tattoo."

"Flowers," he declared immediately. "Little flowers lining every single marking. Maybe some cute little bunnies- the dots could be their tails."

Deadpan af. He took another swig, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace easily. Damn, how could Fenris not see how easily their friendship fit together? Fuck their stupid destinies, they didn't need to change anything.

"For me, I'm thinking tramp stamp. Right here." He hiked his tunic up and showed off his hairy lower back helpfully.

And of everything, Fenris couldn't help his eyes wandering before he stopped himself, because that was the first time he'd ever seen that skin, and he'd known his own attraction since the first time he'd seen Varric - and now--

He didn't blush, but he did have to glance away and clear his throat to bring himself back to reality.

"I would already have enough flowers in my hair," he managed, voice holding an odd croak.

If Varric noticed anything, he didn't say, only lowered his shirt with a stupid melodramatic wink and grabbed the bottle. There were many reasons for Fenris to act strangely; it was a strange day. Varric preferred to keep the conversation flowing and try to prevent this friendship from dying.

"Exactly, it'd be a whole look. Going from dramatic and spiky to covered in flowers would be exactly your type of rebellion."

"I'll have to resign myself to dressing like an Antivan, won't I." Better to think of that than--

Than the line of thought he didn't need to follow.

"You'll have to pay my tailor bill."

"Hey, it's your angst-fueled makeover, not mine." He examined his nails nonchalantly. "I'll be too busy growing a beard and getting Legion tattoos."

Because Varric's version of rebellion could only be something dwarfy.

"Festis bei umo canavarum - you really would run me into exile doing that," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'd have to go traipse around Thedas with the damned Dalish, pretending I believed a word they said. Following a mage."

"What, all to escape the horror of my beardface?" he snarked, his grin all too shit-eating for the occasion.

It was really too easy to fall into self-aggrandizing flirtation with these people. Isabela, Hawke, Fenris, Anders- they all fed into it, all under the assumption that he was untouchable.

"Seeing you praise the Creators would be pretty damn funny. Especially if you insisted to Hawke that it's not a phase, dad, it's who I am."

A thought came to him. A distraction. Because this was too simple, too easy, and Varric's smile reminded him of what he was trying to forget.

And so he said it: "Do you think I could convince them that I'm the reincarnation of Fen'Harel?"

Something had to work. Because things couldn't be like this now, could they?

Or could they?

Could he have been wrong? Could there be such a thing as a soulmate being platonic? He'd never heard of such a thing, no matter the stories. Tevinter had tales of slaves' soulmates being their masters. The rest of Thedas didn't match, but every story of soulmates ended in either death or sweeping love, and...

And he wouldn't have either, but...

Maker, he needed time to adjust. To mourn. Not Danarius, but the end of a possibility. A mourning he'd been putting off for... for years now. But here he was, talking to Varric as if everything was the same. And to Varric, he supposed it was. He was the one who had to change.

Varric felt something in the air change between them. Shit, it was happening already. Things were shifting, splitting, drifting away.

Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age, but Varric didn't want that. He really didn't want that. Acknowledging this shitshow meant dealing with the possibility of being wrong about Bianca, and just the idea made him a little panicky.

Still, Fenris deserved more than that. He was more than just a friend- he was scriba, the written. One of the names that would follow Varric until he died.

"I bet you could convince them of anything," he sighed, then pushed away from the wall and slid back into his chair.

He gave Fenris a deadly serious lok. "I want to tell you a story, elf. The only story I promised never to tell."

"Please don't." Fenris closed his eyes, arm resting on the mantel above his head. This close, the fire was almost prohibitively warm, but even that didn't seem to touch the chill that had settled into his bones. "I know you mean well, Varric. To make some point, to illustrate some situation that I'm likely not aware of, but I don't think I can stand to hear the story of Bianca." His shoulders fell. "I don't want to hate her more than I already do."

And he did. He hated her, wanted to take her by the shoulders and hiss at her what a fool she was for being able to leave Varric behind, no matter what it was that had separated them. A crossbow that bore her name wasn't a warm pair of arms to sleep in at night - a thought that nearly made him ill even as he thought it, but the truth remained.

He detested Bianca. How dare she treat Varric this way. And that Varric was still so devoted while she... did whatever she did...

"You love her," Fenris said, not looking away from the dancing flames. "I already hold enough animosity toward her for that."

"I..."

Hesitation. That alone shocked him. Actual hesitation, when thinking about Bianca. True, there had been dark thoughts and private doubts over the years: cold nights when his bed was empty and he knew hers wasn't, or bright mornings with a coffee and a rare letter from her, laced with enough love to hurt his heart and enough details about her life to inflame his jealousy.

Maybe there had been doubts. Maybe he had them still.

"I should just tell you. Maybe when you hear the story, you'll understand why I'm not jumping to conclusions."

About Fenris. About anything.

If he was going to do that...

"I hate her," Fenris said bluntly. "Whatever life she leads, she's left you - you, of all people - with a weapon and a memory. You hold that memory as close to your heart as a magister holds his station, in the most remarkable show of devotion I have ever seen. You say her name every day, and come back to a bed that she could welcome you into, but doesn't.

"I hate her, Varric. Because she has what I've thought about since a day in Nevarra when I saw the name on my wrist on a book at a bookseller's stand," he spat. "Because for years, I've lived in hope, and now I know better.

"So I beg your pardon if I don't want to hear how you gave your heart to someone who has thrown away the most remarkable gift I could imagine having."

He didn't know how his markings glowed or how white his knuckles had gone until the wine bottle gave a quiet crack of protest, not shattering but showing a lovely spiderweb where his hand had clenched - a cue to set it aside before he injured himself more than his words already had.

"My apologies," he muttered once the bottle was safely out of his grasp. "It seems I'm having issues with my self-control."

"Don't mention it," came the uneasy reply.

Varric was, frankly, astonished. It was only just hitting him what Fenris had actually gone through: living close to someone who might be his soulmate, watching that person's love for someone else, for six years. It was almost as exquisite a torment as fate had designed for him and Bianca.

Fenris loved him, or at least felt strongly for him. That much was obvious.

Still.

"I'll skip to the end," he said drily. "Where her family didn't drop their arranged marriage plans, and after years of promises and pretty words like 'always,' she gave up on me and married someone else." He sat back in his chair, trying and failing to look nonchalant. "She still sends letters. Oh, not many- just enough to make sure I don't forget about her."

It was enough reason, enough abandonment, enough callousness, enough self-interest, to make him wonder about her sometimes. To wonder, even as he nurtured the hope of the universe bringing them back to each other.

Reason enough to withhold judgment on Fenris. To want to wait and see- to see how things played out, and reevaluate with an open mind.

Reason to doubt.

He pressed a fingertip to the bridge of his nose, rubbing up and down, his eyes closed as he tried to puzzle out his own reaction. If Varric had been trying to somehow mitigate his hatred toward Bianca, it hadn't worked. Quite the opposite, in fact. But he knew that hadn't been the goal.

The question still remained: what was the goal?

Was Varric really trying to talk him into--

Bitterness flared and he spoke, anger borne of loss informing his actions more than rationality. "So now you do the same to me? Ask me to wait and hold on? To play you in this version of your tale of estrangement, to give my devotion to someone devoted to someone else? Better to give it to the dead magister in the tavern. At least then I could let go in time."

Varric let Fenris rant and rage, understanding perfectly why he was so hateful. It wasn't really hate at all: everyone, from Orzammar to Par Vollen, dreamed about their scriba, and the day they'd meet their soulmate. Every child looked forward to the day they would see names emblazoned on their skin, and every teenager obsessed over them, inventing stories and faces and futures and children- or betrayals and dangers and losses, for the enemy.

The loss of a soulmate... well. Many people went their whole lives never finding them. Many people settled with someone they knew was wrong, simply because they had to, or because they were getting on in years and didn't want to be alone.

But losing your soulmate entirely? Or having them in your grasp for years, yet out of reach? Varric couldn't begrudge him some anger.

When the elf fell quiet, Varric spoke softly.

"I'm not asking anything. I just wanted you to know. You think I have any shitting idea of what to do?"

"No." Honesty, if painful. "I only know what I intend to do."

He lifted the cracked bottle, swirled the liquid inside - and when he heard no jingle of glass shards inside, he turned it up and drank the remainder before tossing it into the fire with finality. It felt good to destroy something. Something he didn't care about. Even if he was rather sure something else was about to break as well.

"I am going," he said quietly, "to let go. I am going to be alone. I have hurt enough, and I have no want to keep hurting. And since you won't kill me, and since I can't kill myself, I'll let go. In time, I will heal and I'll hate everyone slightly less."

Something about it made Varric sad, but he couldn't argue. It was the only sensible thing, really. Move on, let go. Let go of something- shit, if he were Fenris, he wouldn't wait on himself. Varric wasn't exactly projecting 'single and ready to mingle.' And there was still Bianca.

And yet. There was a still, small voice deep inside him that said Fenris deserved more than this. That Danarius couldn't have been his soulmate. Even with Bianca- even with.

He nodded, unable to conscionably to anything else. "I'm sorry, Broody."

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