undwarfy | Open post

[Varric sees the gesture and shows no reaction. Not even a little grimace, or a face of "what was that", or a side-eye. Nothing. In this mindset, it's pretty much as good as it gets.]

You're probably right. Nug-fucking son of a bitch.

[The old fire, the old heat that used to infuse those words- is gone. They sound almost obligatory. Routine. Like he's forgotten any other way of talking about his brother.]

[ All the more reason to keep that ill-advised impulse in check. Varric's more clearly than ever not in his right mind. ]

He wasn't always... such a right bastard, was he?

[ He's honestly asking. What he actually knew of Bartrand couldn't fill a page, let alone a book. ]

When we were kids.

[If anything, the tension winds tighter. Talking about Bartrand as an actual person- it's something he's forgotten how to do. That ability died in the Deep Roads.]

Before he got obsessed with the Tethras name.

[His hands thread into his hair, fisting tightly. It's an anchor, but not a soothing one.]

[ Anders' tone is a little lighter, when he speaks again. Not trying for humor, just yet, but maybe hoping just to loosen the hold that bone-deep tension has on Varric. ]

It's hard to imagine either of you as children.

[ Especially Varric, if he's honest. ]

He used to yell at me for playing out in the garden. Got jumpy from going outside.

[Imagine little Varric running through the small garden of a Kirkwall house, with Bartrand just inside, yelling for him to get back in here. The memory does little to ease his tension, just reminds him of everything he's lost.]

Told me stories about Orzammar when Mother was too drunk.

[He's never talked about his mother. Only that she's dead, and that whenever someone jokes about becoming their parents, Varric gets a look on his face like he just smelled something nasty.]

That's... [ Really cute. Sorry, Varric.

Anders - perhaps wisely - holds back the smile that wants to spring unbidden to his lips, suddenly. He's not making things better, already. No need to actively make them worse.

Instead, he just very intently contemplates his hands, for a moment. Maybe longer than he should, when Varric mentions his mother - but what can he possibly say to that? Both a startling revelation and a starkly unpleasant footnote, it only highlights another clear imbalance in their friendship. ]

You know so much about all of us, [ more than he should, probably ] but we hardly know anything about you. I'm sorry for that, too, Varric.

But I know how it feels to be... tossed aside by someone you should have been able to trust. And how it feels to know you'll never even get any closure for it, either. If there's anything I can do for you, I will.

[He turns that over in his mind. The apology, the hand extended in friendship, the kindness. The commiserating.]

Tell me about them. This ex-person of yours.

[Someone from the Circle, maybe, or estranged family that abandoned their little boy for his magic. Varric has seen more than one child dragged through the streets behind a screaming mother, or away from silent, stone-faced parents.]

[ It's not what he expects (actually, what he expects is probably that mug to the head, after all). But it's not an unreasonable request, either.

Anders' mouth works, his lips twitching as if they can't quite settle into just one expression, and he sits back in his seat, pulling his hands back into his lap. ]

My father?

[ Right on the second count. ]

He wasn't exactly what you'd call a kind man. Though he wasn't precisely cruel, either. Just... hard. He liked things a certain way, and - you know the rest.

[ Anders shrugs a shoulder, almost wishing he had taken that drink after all, if only for a way to break up the flow of talk. ]

Needless to say, when I turned twelve and burned down the barn by accident, he couldn't sell me out to the Templars fast enough.

[After a long silence (where usually Varric would interject witty commentary or surprising insight) he gets up and pours a drink, putting it in front of Anders without comment.]

Makes you wonder if they ever gave a shit at all.

[It's not a question. It's a commiseration, delivered bluntly.]

[ Anders doesn't like to wonder about that. He doesn't know which he would prefer.

So he just accepts his drink, instead, after a brief, silent moment of simply staring into it. It's a waste, either way, but at least it gives him an excuse to shut up. The mug's half empty when he sets it back down. ]

[Varric puts an entire jug in front of Anders, not wanting to have to keep getting up- and figuring Justice could use a frothy mug of shut-the-fuck-up, just this once. Then he returns to his chair, visibly wincing at a tweak of muscle that goes wrong.]

You know, they said alcohol is supposed to be relaxing. I don't feel fucking relaxed.

[ Anders scoffs, from where he's slouched over his mug. ]

You'd need to drink half the Waking Sea in whiskey to loosen up, the way you look. You know, I could help with that far more than the liquor will, right?

Oh really?

[He looks the mage over, something less dark than usual flitting over his face. On another day, it would have been a smile.]

So you weren't just yanking my chain with that massage stuff?

[ Anders, for his part, is quite sincere. ]

I wasn't. It's actually quite beneficial, when dealing with old wounds that magic alone won't soothe. But it works equally well as a cure for dreadfully long days.

[He regards Anders for a long moment, thinking about their weird game, and how good those bits of magic felt against his scalp. How nice it would be to feel anything even remotely good.]

Alright.

[He starts untying his hair.]

The coat, as well. [ Anders instructs, after an odd moment of quiet, an unreadable look on his face.

Then he's unhurriedly shuffling back his chair, his fingers working in an idle stretch. ]

It won't do much good through a layer of leather that thick.

[He shrugs off his coat with a mutter-]

Knew it. You're just trying to get me naked.

[Look, Anders, humor! A joke!! Attempts were made.

Once the coat's off he stands there looking slightly awkward, not sure of where he should go.]

Want me in bed or on the table, handsome?

[ Anders makes a sound that's too low and under his breath to really discern, but might as well be a laugh.

Actually, he'd just sort of expected Varric to sit there. But this does make it easier. His voice is almost tinged with amusement, when he replies. ]

Your choice, sweetheart. [ All right, it's more sarcasm than amusement. ] Although I'm not sticking around to help pick out any inconvenient splinters you give yourself, if you choose the table.

[SIGH] So one of you finally gets me in bed.

I envy you. When I get me in bed, the view isn't half so good.

[That burst of humor seems to take it out of him; he nearly flops onto the bed, on his stomach with his face buried in the covers. Not the most sustainable position, that.]

Honestly, I'd rather not hear about what you do in bed.

[ Not that it doesn't beat other recent topics of conversation by a mile. But still. He's trying to lighten the mood. Not weirdly sexualize it.

Anders considers the bed for a moment, then stops to tug off his boots, as well. It wouldn't be very helpful to track mud and ash and whatever other Darktown filth is coating the soles of his shoes all over the place, and Varric face-planting in the middle of the bed hasn't left him a lot of other options.

A moment later, the mattress dips under his weight as Anders shuffles cautiously up onto the bed to kneel beside him. There's no warning before he puts his hands on Varric's shoulders, thumbs digging gently but firmly into the back of his neck, nor the way his palms radiate a strong, soothing heat even before they touch. If ever there was a time to eschew the preamble, though, now seems like it. ]

[Varric is alright with putting an end to the jokes; the little bursts of humor he put forth were pretty much all he had.

Besides, the instant Anders puts his hands on him, Varric lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His arms come up, hands meeting under his forehead to hold his face a bit off the bed- to breathe, mostly.]

Shit. [Quietly.] That's just not fair.

[He hasn't even done anything yet, but that heat- damn. Mages.]

[ Anders chuckles, hands not missing a beat - or a lingering knot of tension. Of which there's more than enough to keep him occupied for a while, it seems. Not that it's giving him any more reason to hurry. ]

And you doubted me.

Never again.

[Varric didn't even realize how much tension he's been carrying until now. Those hands are soothing away hurts that he didn't notice until he gets hit with the astonishing lack of pain.

It's a little while before he realizes that he's making noise. And... has been, for the past few minutes. Oops.]

-Ah, sorry, Blondie.

[ Anders doesn't laugh, this time, though there's still the quiet lilt of amusement in his tone. ]

It's quite all right. Just part of the process.

[ And he always plays it off as casually as possible, for politeness' sake, when it does happen. But usually, it doesn't feel quite so - awkward. At least not on his end.

A little of the warmth from Anders' palms seems to have crept back into his own skin. Or maybe it's just the belated effects of the drink. It's certainly not that Varric's voice happens to sound ten times as good as it usually does, in those mumbled tones of relief. ]

You wouldn't be the first person to embarrass themselves under my hands.

[ Which sounds entirely more innuendo-y than he means for it to, honest. ]

[His attempt at a witty comeback is somewhat interrupted by a sigh when Anders leans into a particularly nasty knot of tension.]

I- nngh - can only imagine. You know, I've heard a lot of rumors about what mage hands can do.

[A lighthearted throwback to their stupid gay chicken game. Hah. It's better than thinking about Bartrand.]

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