museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

But Fenris shook his head, looking at it and... he pulled his arm back, drawing up one knee like a stiff old man to rest it against. "I was angry and hurting. And it isn't the first time I tried to erase his name."

Varric's...

Varric's, he'd left. Until the very last, anyway. That arm, he left in the water, unseen.

"It grows back after half a year or so. They never stay gone."

Too late to hide that slip, though. At the word his, Varric's eyes shoot up, meeting Fenris's all too keenly. Then he looks at the other arm, unseen in the tub, and back at Fenris- questioning.

"Did you...?"

His eyes drifted away from Varric's, shoulder lifting in an admission of guilt. "I was angry," he echoed. "And hurting."

As close as he'd get to a yes.

Ah. That was that, then.

His eyes dropped once more, studying some very interesting speck of dirt on the floor. Andraste's tits, what could he even say to this? It wasn't like he could exactly blame Fenris for being angry or hurt- not after what he'd spent a lifetime going through.

And yet.

It still stung to think of: Fenris, burning his name off of his wrist. Fenris, trying to erase him. In all Varric's many long, confusing, heartbreaking years in this life, he had never once tried to erase either of the names that confused him.

It hurt. It stung in the same place that ached when Fenris turned against them, that roared at Hawke's plan for Tevinter, that leaped when Fenris stumbled in covered in blood. He wondered, for the first time, if he wasn't starting to confuse the markings on his own wrists.

In his reverie, he didn't realize he was staring at his wrists. At the names.

It was Fenris who broke this new silence, swallowing tightly before he said, softly, "I think I can take care of it from here, Varric. Thank you. ...For everything." It felt like farewell, for some reason. Probably better if it was.

But it had been so good of late. So perfect. The two of them living like this. He'd loved the balmy evenings, the laughter, the camaraderie. He'd liked how Llomerryn was slotting their lives together. For a while, he'd been able to ignore the damned names and just live, but it always came back to this. Easier, he thought, if he'd never met at least one of the names. There was no way for him to deny Danarius, but if the other had been something far away, something Orlesian or Fereldan--

Then he would've gone to Orlais or Ferelden after escaping Seheron, he reminded himself, instead of the Free Marches. Hope had led him to Kirkwall.

There was no reason to think about those what-ifs. Pointless, in the entire. And now, they'd spoiled something else.

It was the tone of farewell that got him, that snapped Varric out of this reverie.

"Shut up, elf," he said quietly, shaking his head with a quiet determination. "Your arms are falling off."

It took him a second to look up, to deliberately shake off the heaviness of the moment, so he could look at his friend once more. "Like hell I'm gonna leave the armless wonder to wash himself. Maybe an elf could pull it off, but you'd have a hell of a time reaching your back."

With that, he reached into the tub for the fallen cloth and started gently washing Fenris's shoulders.

Screw destiny. Screw the stupid tattoos on their stupid wrists and those stupid legends about stupid soulmates and stupid enemies. Fuck it all. Fuck them. Fenris was his friend, whatever else, and he didn't abandon friends.

Someday, thought Fenris, when he hadn't been thrown like a stick for a Mabari to fetch, when the time was right, and when he felt like he could afford to lose everything (which likely meant never, now that he thought about it), he was going to kiss Varric.

He was going to take the dwarf's face in his hands and he was going to kiss him with every scrap of feeling that had built over the years. He was going to run his fingers through his hair, throw the tie as far as he could. He was going to kiss Varric until one or both of them were blue in the face, seeing stars, and breathless.

Not today. Likely not ever. But his mind took hold of the idea as he sat quietly and let Varric work, lost for words and most anything else besides acquiescence. Because what could he say that would mean anything in the face of what Varric had just seen?

It was a funny thing, seeing someone try to erase him. The evidence of Fenris's attempted rejection and refusal writ large on his scarred skin, the tissue marring what Varric privately considered to be perfection. It seemed to have dislodged something inside him that he couldn't quite understand just yet. Suddenly Varric wanted to see that scar heal. He wanted to see his name bold and black on Fenris's skin, impossible to deny or ignore.

He kept stealing glances at his own wrist, emblazoned with the simple word Leto. With every pass of the cloth over Fenris's smooth skin, it came back into view. Gradually, the sight became less interesting than the sight of soap sparkling over smooth skin, the tactile feel of dragging the cloth in slow, gentle circles. It felt like a labor of love, or maybe worship, to gradually wash away the dirt, the muck, the grime that had marred his skin.

"I don't blame you," he said quietly. His hand gently moved Fenris's hair out of the way, so he could wash the back of his neck in quiet circles. His other hand gripped Fenris's shoulder lightly to brace him. It seemed to Varric that that one simple spot of contact had more feeling than all the nerves in his body.

"I might," Fenris answered quietly. "You've been a better friend to me than I deserve, Varric. You... keep being the only one to come back to me."

And then, more softly, he added, "I don't know what that means."

He doubted anyone did, or could. But true was true. Varric had had opportunity after opportunity to let Fenris walk away - because he had, time and again. He'd walked away, he'd threatened, he'd shouted and insulted. He'd drawn his weapon and, though he would've hated it, he'd been prepared to use it. He'd known himself ready to fight for his own life and his beliefs and, even when that had caused dire conflict, Varric had kept coming back.

Nothing about this was simple, and everything about it hurt. And all he had ever wanted was one good thing.

For Varric, it was simple: his true friends were precious few. He would NOT leave them. After being left or betrayed by so many loved ones in his life, after having suffered so many personal tragedies in his scant few decades on earth, he refused to suffer any more than he absolutely had to.

He let a possible soulmate go once. He wasn't going to do that again.

"I don't know either, elf." For all that, though, he still couldn't tear his mind from Bianca, and how certain he'd been of her status as soulmate. "All I know is history is rife with stories of tragedy striking because of people making assumptions about these names."

He refused to join those ranks. There would be no assuming- just letting things develop. Letting them happen.

Which, right now, meant slowly moving around to Fenris's side, so he could start washing his chest. That felt more intimate somehow, his hand and the cloth disappearing into the water to scrub the crusted blood and dirt from his stomach. His hand, making slow circles over his skin, with only a rag in the way.

Maker, this was getting complicated.

Fenris made a choice. He still ached, and he knew Varric was determined, at this point, to see the task through. But this conversation was only causing both of them pain.

He decided to change the subject. To tell a story Varric had yet to hear.

"I was bathed like this twice before, you know. Within the span of a day."

He wouldn't like part of the story, Fenris knew. But the rest would be an entertaining enough tale that he thought it would go over well. For all he knew, Varric would one day write it into one of his books. Fenris had yet to read them. Maybe someday, he would.

His hand stilled on Fenris's chest. A tumble of implications and recollections and extrapolations rioted through his mind, and the glance he gave Fenris was surprisingly dark.

"I have a feeling I'm not gonna like this story."

"You won't like part. You will like others," he said, shifting so he could meet Varric's gaze. "I had made a name for myself as a bodyguard. The other magisters either disbelieved the claims or envied them - and they wanted to see the truth of the matter."

He shifted himself again, wincing, but making himself easier to reach. "So they held a tournament."

He frowned, but mentally told himself to buck up and kept washing the elf. It was getting a bit, well- strange, now. Each pass of the cloth had him leaning down farther, bringing his face closer to Fenris's, as the cloth moved farther down his stomach. He saw the muck and filth down there, it- it was, unfortunately, necessary.

Listening was a distraction. From the intimacy of it, from the water making Fenris glisten, from the soothing bass of his voice.

"Most people outside the Imperium have only ever heard of Minrathous, and it is the center of the Imperium's little world," Fenris said quietly, "but for this kind of tournament, they held it farther away, to keep it from greater notice. It wasn't exactly legal.

"So they held it in Cerastes. A port city, more given to slave trading - and one of the magisters already had an estate there with a courtyard that could easily become an arena. It took him six months to have it altered, which gave the other participants a chance to choose their bodyguards to try to match me." He didn't often speak so highly of his skills, but that was the point of this entire story. For once, he was using his own storyteller's flair in an effort to not think about Varric's hand.

Varric really did want to be able to stop washing Fenris's front. It had to be awkward and uncomfortable for both of them. But when he glanced down, he could still see dirt and blood- lower down. A lot lower.

So. He washed lower. It required hiking his sleeve up to his shoulder, and angling himself entirely too close to the elf, but he was able to get that last bit of filth down south. It was hard to not actually close his eyes from his sudden, intense desire to keep touching- to turn his head, just a little, and press his lips right under Fenris's jaw.

Then it was over, and he could move again. Shit. Shit. This wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all, he- he had to focus up higher. High on the chest, should be safe.

As Fenris kept talking it was surprisingly easy to zone out, letting the story distract him from his task.

Edited 2018-05-01 04:48 (UTC)

It was very gentle, the way he slightly shifted under Varric's hand. He had to, though. The motion, the location - it left him no choice. He didn't mind being touched, not in the least, not now, but the distraction was growing, and that was the last thing he'd needed. Instead, he pulled himself just slightly away, enough to suggest that maybe Varric needed to attend to... say, his foot rather than the nipple he was circling.

"When we arrived there, each magister was given a suite of rooms, each bodyguard brought to a private bathing room. I didn't know what to expect, but I did hear the order given to 'make him shine,'" Fenris half-snorted. "And so they did. My fellow elves stripped me and bathed me and gave me looks somewhere between pitying, hatred, and envy. I spoke to them as I could, assuring them it wasn't my choice, but they had their orders."

At Fenris's movement he stirred, coming back to himself and moving on to- in fact, to Fenris's foot. Doing the legs would be easier, although most likely no less awkward.

He was right. It proved a bit awkward. Mercifully, his leggings had kept out most of the filth, so he didn't actually have to scrub. Still, it required running that soapy cloth underwater, over almost every inch of his legs. By the time Varric was done, he could barely hear the fucking story.

"Do you remember Isabela asking if I glistened? That day, I did," he said, a faint chuckle following the words. "It was ridiculous, really. I was out there in my armour, fighting these others. Some were Tal-Vashoth, others were Avvar, a few Antivan Crows... One magister even boasted a Templar as a bodyguard, but the man simply wore the armour; he wasn't a true Templar.

"By the end of the day, I felt almost like I do now. Likely worse, since you've attended to me. But I soaked in a tub while a single slave bathed me from the blood and dust I'd become caked with through the day. She even tried to flirt with me."

The touch on his legs, after the... sensitive areas Varric had attended before, was nothing. He could live with that, again and again, more easily than the absent touches to his chest.

"Flirt with you while bathing you?" he snarked, rudely poking the cloth at a ridiculous elf toe. "The nerve of her."

Okay, maybe it was a little self-aware. Maybe. Also, he took the time to poke Fenris in the foot. He would never ever get another shot at tickling Fenris without immediate retaliation, so yes- Varric absolutely took advantage of his weakness.

"Stop it," Fenris half-hissed. For one thing, his feet weren't really that sensitive. He did walk around mostly bare-footed most of the time. But the high arch that Varric poked wasn't exactly not-sensitive, either. Just sensitive enough to make him grouse, "Don't do that when I'm hurting."

"Ha hahahaha!" he cackled unattractively, dropping Fenris's foot with a splash. "That's half the fun."

With that, he moved around to the other arm. This time, he studiously avoided turning it over, letting the scarred wrist remain unseen. That arm he did more quickly- because it was the end. All that was left was hair.

Which, alright, he would enjoy doing. Rather than making Fenris dunk again, he scooped up some hot water and poured it gently over the elf's head. Varric took his time lathering the elf up, working his hands in to try to get under the tangles and work soap into his scalp.

"Ass."

But then...

Then Varric's hands were in his hair again and he forgot what words were. The soreness of his scalp ebbed under Varric's touch - as did... Honestly, as did the pain in most of his body. Never in his life-- No. No, never in his memory was there a moment when his skin didn't hurt. Not until now.

If the Maker was a merciful deity, he would let Varric kiss him just once, even if it was to pacify rather than in real feeling, and then kill him so he would have this peace as his last moment. His skin felt like skin, not like some binding that kept him pinned in. The constant aching irritation was gone, leaving behind simple existence in its wake. Only two areas - one small and one tiny - were left hurting, and he found he didn't mind that so much. Not when the rest of him knew relaxation (even if his joints still hurt) like they hadn't in years.

What Fenris could, and did do, with gentle hands in his hair and his skin without pain, was moan. Quiet, obviously pleased, but a moan all the same.

Varric's breath froze in his lungs, mouth falling open in a silent, unseen gasp at how unfairly goddamn hot that was. Maker's ass, who gave him the right? Seriously?

Thank the Ancestors Fenris couldn't see it, because he honestly needed a minute, as blood rushed several different places at once and his head spun from a desire to reach out and kiss him. It was all too close- too much touching, too little space, too short a distance between his lips and Fenris's neck.

The blood was still in his hair. He kept washing. Kept massaging gently, wanting to hear that sound again.

The second sound wasn't a moan. It was a sigh, more innocent but accompanied with a tilt of his head, the lowering of his shoulders - the unconscious offering of his neck. The bruise was fading, leaving behind a sun-browned throat with the white lines of lyrium standing out brightly. His head tipped back, eyes closed. It was trust, and not a gift given lightly.

Under Varric's attention, Fenris' hair was beginning to unravel, to fall back into loose waves (who would have guessed that, longer, Fenris' hair would tend toward waves instead of smooth, straight strands?) from the tangled, matted mess the fight had snarled it into. His hair was slick and fine, like silk between Varric's fingers, sliding into order with light encouragement.

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