museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

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.

Varric eyed the long, graceful lines of his throat. He wanted very badly to lean in and kiss him- but Fenris was still soapy, so instead, he lowered Fenris's head back into the water to rinse out soap and dirt both.

When the elf's head came back up, Varric still had his hands in Fenris's hair. By any standard, he could and should have pulled away then. He didn't. He kept working his fingers gently against the scalp- gently, so gently.

Shit. As much as he wanted this moment to go on forever, he was starting to get cold. With great reluctance, he dropped his hands and nudged at the elf.

"The drain."

If he'd cursed, it would've sounded halfhearted, resigned, and amused all at once. As it was, all of those feelings wrapped, instead, into a mutter of, "Right," And he slowly sat up to grab onto the plug and pull it free. He knew what came next, and he shoved himself into doing it, standing up on joints that had certainly known better days, and he pushed himself into stretching in an effort to at least accustom some of those joints to moving again. It hurt, but he could feel the benefit almost immediately.

"If this is a preview of how I'll feel at the age of fifty, I'll kill myself next year and spare the world the trouble," he sighed, not thinking of what his wet smalls either showed or hid. He did need to dry off, though, and what he did think about was the location of either a robe or a towel - or both.

Varric already had a towel at hand, produced while Fenris was slowly making his way upright. Fetching it gave him some time to breathe- to breathe, and to think, and to wonder what in stone's name he was fucking doing. This was Fenris- did he even feel that way about Fenris? Shit, he had to be careful, Fenris was in love with him, this wasn't just any affair. He had to be careful, and there was still-

-other things. To think about.

Once he had the towel back, though, other things weren't in his thoughts anymore. It was about navigating the somewhat awkward task of helping Fenris dry off- while studiously avoiding the wet undies.

"Here you go, elf," he said, wrapping towel number 1 around the elf and helping him to the stool. Then he started drying Fenris off carefully, letting the elf handle his own lower body.

A murmured thanks about the towel and Fenris did indeed dry himself off - in part. Enough that he felt comfortable enough warning Varric sooner than later, "Turn your back," before he dropped the smalls and wrapped the towel around his waist instead. One edge tucked over the other, he sat on the stool and let him know, "There. I'm as decent as ever."

His calves were still wet, as were his feet, but those could drip dry. As could his hair, where it dripped rivulets down his back, very nearly following the lines of lyrium.

While Fenris turned around, Varric fetched another towel.

"Alright, let's get your hair dry and de... de-rat's-nest it a little."

He proceeded to do exactly that: dry Fenris's hair gently, rubbing the towel against his head in slow circles, squeezing water from the silken tresses. It didn't take long before the hair was as dry as possible, and Varric was tossing some clothes at his feet. Thin, flowy things, much like Varric himself was wearing. He'd bought them for the elf a few days before, and forgotten about them.

"Here you go, messere. Fresh new threads, courtesy of black market Qunari textiles."

"Ah. That explains it."

Scraps of fabric he'd seen on Seheron swam into his mind once more. He thought he'd seen red once before. Green, even shades of grey and brown. He wasn't sure he'd seen this blue.

He had to use his toes to pick them up, but when he did, he could swear it was like lifting something as insubstantial as fog. Varric worked on his hair, and he let this finely worked cloth slip through his fingers. "If half the nobility in Tevinter knew this existed, they'd be fighting their own army to try to make trade deals with the Qunari artisans instead of trying to conquer Seheron," he murmured.

There was no good way to don the lower bits without disturbing Varric's work, but he could and did pull on the tunic, worked as it was to tie closed instead of drop over his head. He left it hanging around his shoulders rather than up high enough to get in the way - and immediately, he was impressed. Though thin, the fabric was enough to keep the very edge of a chill off while still letting heat dissipate. Qunari ingenuity struck again.

Varric was pretty pleased with his own set of clothing- as wet as he'd been when first pulling it on, it was already dry and had dried him with it, wicking away the water. And he had to admit, Fenris wore it well.

He stepped away. "You get the rest of it on, elf. I'll be right back."

Off he went to grab some stuff for those silver tresses.

He worked as best he could, still moving with a slowness borne of pain, but it was starting to ease. The warmth of the bath, the relaxation, the healing balms and - he wouldn't lie to himself - the attention. All of it had helped.

And now, these clothes. He pulled them on, the pants sitting low on his hips, the legs wide and comfortable - the only pair he owned, he thought, that weren't his usual closely-fit leggings - and the shirt a wraparound that tied closed as tight or as loose as he wanted. Tonight, he chose loose, letting the whole thing hang around him like the lightest caftan, and it did. It floated around him, touching his skin like feathers, sheer enough that he could nearly swear he wore nothing, but thick enough that he felt comfortable in it - at least here, in the privacy of the rooms that had become home.

With a small smile, he seated himself again, letting his eyes close just for the sake of resting his eyes. He was enjoying the idea of sleep, though the idea of sleeping alone had an appeal that was shrinking by the moment. He wanted to curl onto his side and drape his arm around Varric's waist as he drifted off. He'd have to take hold of a pillow and let his mind supply the rest.

The instant Fenris ass touched seat, Varric flicked his ear very gently.

"Up you get, now." With an arm ready if Fenris needed it. He let the elf lean on him as they walked back into the main room. One chaise was effectively ruined, or near to it- but to the other he guided the elf, sitting him on the chaise. There was room behind Fenris for Varric to slide in and seat himself, but it was snug. His chest nearly touched Fenris's back- and that was when he wasn't leaning in.

This had seemed like a wonderful idea a minute ago. Varric busied himself with the hairbrush to distract from how very close they were.

To his credit, he only gave the faintest of grumbles before following, and slightly leaning, his way into the sitting room. The chaise was admittedly more comfortable than the stool where he'd been before, and to have Varric behind him made the seating arrangement a battle of wills.

If he stayed sitting up, he reminded himself, he would likely get more attention to his hair, more gentle touches, and more enjoyment. If he leaned back and took hold of Varric and fell asleep on him, he'd get the satisfaction of curling up around him, the content of sleeping there, but... But no, it wouldn't be fairly gotten. So he held on to the chaise at either side, using his palms as guides so he could stay upright. "I do appreciate this," he said once he had enough mind to.

"Don't mention it," he murmured into the back of his neck. Shit, when did they get so close?

Varric started brushing his hair, trying hard not to yank- but there was only so much he could do in the face of that many tangles. The bath helped the worst of the mats, but it still needed serious tending to.

"Mmmh." There were a few little tugs, but Fenris put up with them easily enough, only a few winces that Varric couldn't see. Enough, though, that he asked, "Should we take a dagger to it and get it done?"

It wasn't as if he hadn't done it in the past. That was, after all, the origin of Fenris' haircut when he first arrived in Kirkwall. A slaver had taken hold of the length he'd allowed to grow. Fenris had let him keep it.

"Oh, you're giving up now?" he asked incredulously. "And here I thought warriors of your caliber were supposed to be tough."

It's an obvious bait- perhaps lessened by the soft touch of hand to the back of his neck, or how close they were.

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