undwarfy | Open post

[ 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.]

No rumors, my friend. It's all truth.

[ Or close enough. But he's not expecting Varric to challenge him on that, now (let alone ask for a demonstration), so it's probably safe to brag a little.

At least it keeps things light while he's working out what feels like a good thirty-some years' worth of tension. His fingertips brush the ends of Varric's hair out of the way as he works his way back up his neck again, following the ridge of his spine. ]

...Maker, Varric, I'm starting to think you need a standing appointment. Carrying the whole world around on your shoulders might suit you, but it's clearly been taking a toll.

[Varric's already had a small demonstration- hell, it was the reason he ended their gay chicken, so he doesn't need to ask for one, or challenge him on it.

He does, however, need to stop himself from moaning, which he fails at rather spectacularly, despite his attempts at burying it in profanity.]

Ah, shit. Fuck. I definitely wouldn't say no.

You can come to the clinic any time you like, you know. You've put enough coin into keeping the doors open, I'd think you would.

[ And that's a little bit teasing, but, well, it's also pretty much true.

Anders' hands work their way higher, gentling as his fingertips drag across Varric's scalp, and a touch of healing magic joining the heat, to soothe the source of his persistent headache. It's almost as pleasantly tingly as the sparks. ]

[He makes a small pleased noise that probably wouldn't be out of place in bed, then immediately cuts it off and replaces that noise with a sigh. Right. This is Anders, don't be weird.

It's really a fucking struggle not to be weird.]

Nah. [Slightly muffled into his hands.] You should come here. At least I can make sure you eat one meal a week.

[He's dad inside because it's better than being dead inside. Deal with it.]

Fine.

[ Surprising even himself for a moment, Anders almost immediately agrees. But it's only half to cover for any sort of awkward silence he might have felt building, in the wake of that not at all very interesting noise Varric just made. As for the rest, well - maybe it just makes more sense to him not to be having perfectly good food thrown at him for nothing.

At least this way, he can pretend it's a fair exchange. ]

Just don't expect it to be quite so regular. Rubbing your shoulders isn't the most important thing I have to do.

[ Just the weirdest. ]

Bullshit.

[Amazing, that he can muster up even a little sarcasm- given how low and empty he felt only minutes before.]

Touching all this is undoubtedly the most thrilling part of anybody's day, Blondie.

[It's the same dry tone he uses to tell Isabela to stop objectifying him.]

Maker's breath, Anders- [reAAL name?!?] -Do you even realize how much coin you could make from this?

[Does he even realize what a fucking gift he has. How much rich shits would shell out for Anders to melt away their piddly aches and pains.]

I didn't say it wasn't thrilling.

[ And perhaps that's letting on too much, but Varric is doing his damnedest to make it difficult to remain entirely impartial, here. ]

It's just that there are more pressing matters.

[ Like saving lives and blah blah blah. He finds the thought vastly less interesting than it usually is, when Varric says his name in that tone of voice, and for a second or two the magic pouring from his fingertips falters and fades.

He covers it with a huff of breath, mock exasperation, as he pulls his hands back and starts to work on Varric's shoulders again. ]

Oh, sure. I'd be the richest mage they ever threw in the Gallows. Besides, I'm no more interested in a bunch of snotty nobles' gold than I am in taking coppers from the poor.

And I wouldn't just do this for anyone, you know. If I start down that road, I might as well start taking up all those drunken offers at the Rose, too.

Heh.

[Leave it to Blondie to conflate paid work with prostitution. Oh, melodramatic glowing friends, never change.]

That snotty noble gold could buy a lot of expensive potions, Blondie. The exotic shit.

[Whatever, he knows a losing argument when he sees one. He's mostly talking just for something to talk about, a distraction from how much he's enjoying this. It's... more than he expected, and a bit more than is normal for a massage. Part of him wants to go out and get himself some extra tension, just for more excuses for Anders to do this.]

I'm sorry, but what need do you presume I have of the exotic shit, Varric?

[ Better joking than arguing in earnest, anyway. If nothing else, Anders doesn't sound particularly put out. ]

Or is it for you you're hoping? I didn't think you were the type.

There's plenty you don't know about me.

[It comes out sounding rather more suggestive than he intended. After a moment's contemplation, he decides to let it stand.]

Well, any time you feel like revealing all of your deepest, darkest secrets.

[ Anders pats him on the back as he pulls away, stretching again as he slides to the edge of the bed. ]

...Or if you just want to talk. I'm here. And you're done. Unless you're still hurting anywhere?

[Varric takes a second - the quickest moment - to breathe in, appreciating the relief and relaxation flooding his body. And, perhaps, to remind himself that being disappointed that the massage is over is stupid, because hell- it did what it was supposed to do, right? Right.

He sits up, rolling his shoulders experimentally.]

Fucking ancestors, that's incredible.

[At the offer of "hurting anywhere else", though, he pulls off a glove... revealing a nasty-looking patchwork of burns. It looks as if it was partly seen to with a health poultice- but not a very strong one.

Varric holds his hand out, looking sheepish.]

[ Look, there are only so many overzealous praises Anders can handle in one sitting. He's quiet, this time, considering his boots instead of brushing Varric off once again.

He doesn't get quite so far as reaching to put them back on before he notices Varric reaching out to him - or offering his hand, as it were. ]

What— [ His confusion is short-lived, as starkly as those angry, red burns stand out against Varric's skin, and the quick succession of emotions that chase it across his face are perfectly predictable. Shock, disapproval - more disapproval, and frankly it looks for a moment as if he's readying to read Varric to riot act.

But then he remembers what he's doing here, as he takes Varric's hand carefully between his own, the pale blue glow of mana already building between his fingers, and softens again.

If he's been sitting with a burnt hand stuffed into a leather glove this long, already, Varric already knows he messed up. Not that that's going to exempt him from all of Anders' disdainful concern, as he heals the nasty burn. ]

You know, next time, perhaps you should lead with the open wound.

[He shrugs his other shoulder.]

Funny thing about those poultices from Solivitus- they kill all the pain, even if they don't heal everything.

[In other words: the damn thing was pretty much numb, and he sort of forgot about it- and/or it wasn't bothering him as much as everything else was.]

No poultice will do that, on its own. A wound needs proper tending. Especially a burn.

[ Now he does sound chiding, in spite of himself. ]

Covering it up is practically the worst thing you can do, you know.

[ ...Not that it matters, now. The skin is whole again and no longer such an angry shade of red, when Anders lets go of his hand. ]

[Varric pulls his hand back, rubbing at it with his thumb restlessly.]

I- look, I felt stupid, okay?

[He may actually burst into flames from the trauma of admitting such an undignified thing. Varric Tethras does not feel stupid- he's not the kind of person who ever feels such things, or lets on that he does.]

[ Anders is almost stricken by that admission. No - there isn't really anything almost about it.

Varric admitting he's ever once felt anything less than perfectly confident is like... Isabela admitting she's capable of feeling shame. (Only apparently a lot more likely.) ]

I'm sorry. [ Not for his concern, but for forgetting the things that have brought them here, even so briefly. Anders shifts closer, to sit next to Varric again on the bed. ]

You did what you could. That's more than most do.

[Varric shifts a little closer, too. Something in him craves... craves proximity. The simple, quiet presence of another person, someone calmer than Daisy and smaller than Hawke and gentler than every single one of those sods out in the bar. Anders, for all his many flaws and probable eventual journey over a cliff, has one of the softest, gentlest hearts he knows.

It's why he's able to keep talking.]

Too bad it wasn't enough.

[A look over his formerly-injured hand.]

I threw something out that I shouldn't have.

[On the mantle, nearly unnoticed, is a ring covered in ash. A Tethras signet ring.]

[ Anders doesn't look to the mantle; he looks toward the fire, where the dark, twisted shape of the knife is barely recognizeable, now. But only for a moment, before his gaze drops back to Varric's hand, now absent of burns.

He won't ask, even if he's curious. It feels too much like prying, and prying feels too much like judging. He's going to do his best not to slip back into that, for at least a few minutes more.

He asks something simpler, instead, folding his own hands together in his lap. ]

You got it back, though?

Sure did.

[He sits in silence for another minute, before something just sort of bursts out of him.]

How did you feel after Karl? Was it anywhere near this shitty and pointless?

[Varric doesn't know the full extent of Anders's relationship with that mage - that Tranquil - from the first night they met, but he'll never forget the absolute heartbreak evidence in Blondie's face when they all saw that Tranquil brand.]

[ There's plenty of heartbreak evident in his expression, now, when Varric says that name. No matter how much time he has to come to terms with Karl's death, he doesn't think he ever will. He was the one who was too late; he was the one who failed. ]

Maybe. I don't know.

[ It's not like he really knows what Varric is going through, to begin with. A point he tries to elaborate on— ]

I never had a brother. And Karl wasn't... that, to me.

[ And after they'd been apart for so long - it's different, even if the final tally came to the same. ]

[He's never asked-- he never felt the need to pry. Which could itself be called miraculous, were it not for his instinct for when an issue is too sensitive for casual nosiness.

He's never asked and Anders has never said, but there's pain in his eyes and heartbreak on his face, and Varric can add two plus two and get four. The unspoken story tells itself.]

I'm sorry, Blondie.

[How strange, to think back on that chaotic day and see Karl Thekla through a closer lens: the midnight stalk through Hightown, long shadows thatching the hallways, that terrible moment when familiar eyes met and saw only a stranger. How the brief sunspell of clarity seemed only to sharpen the sorrow afterwards, and that moment of begging- begging, in a voice meant for close talking and secrets, pleading for the relief of death.

Maybe it relieved them. For the poor bastards left living, there was only emptiness, and the memory of metal parting flesh like butter. Only questions and the collapse of a body now empty.

For the first time, he thinks he understands Anders. If Bartrand's fate had been caused by a single person, with malice and forethought, Varric thinks he would have torn down all the world to carve out his pound of flesh.

When their eyes meet, there's something undefinable in Varric's expression.]

That "mercy" line... did it ever stop feeling like bullshit?

[ He doesn't talk about it. He probably wouldn't have, even if Varric had asked, before. Because talking about it brings back the memory, sharp and clear as if it were only moments ago, mere instants since the last time he could conjure to mind the memory of a man who was once his only comfort in the world and not also be reminded of the warmth of his blood spilling, or that broken, empty stare.

It's a wound he'll never stop picking at, a hurt that doesn't go away, and saying the words aloud makes it that much more real.

So he doesn't say any more, only tilting his head in a slight, barely-there gesture of acknowledgement when Varric offers the obligatory condolences. At least in this case, the sympathy there feels genuine.

Though it's little consolation, really.

It's only when Varric speaks up again that a little bit of life is breathed back into Anders' listless expression - though it's in the form of a spark of affront. ]

I never thought it was. Karl and I didn't speak of it often, but we both knew without at doubt we'd never want to live that way - with our minds sundered, no will of our own.

What I did for him was what I hope he'd have had the strength to do for me, had our positions been reversed. What I hope you or one of the others will, should I ever wind up with the same brand.

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casual use of thirst icons

nice (⁎❛ᴗ❛⁎)

i can do this all day bub

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i super hope this is coherent

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