A/N: I can't take it, guys. I need to write something with these characters; I can't help myself. From here on out, everything - and I mean, EVERYTHING, including characterization (which makes me cringe, the thought that I could be so far off base it hurts) - is speculation. I'm going to try my hardest to write everything thoughtfully instead of banging my excited face onto the keyboard and uploading it. I promise. I'm just... so excited. Hence the title. ARGH MARCH WHERE ARE YOU.

Varric x Fenris.

"... and then she leaned over, brushed her hand over my collar, moving so close I could feel her breath on my ear. Before she pulled away, she murmured a quiet, 'Good on you, Varric; should the nights get too cold this winter, I'll at least know the location of the warmest bed in the Free Marches.' I've never seen a smirk that damn... smug in all of my years on anyone but myself."

The elf half-lying on the opposite side of the couch took a long drag from the slow-burning cigarette, drawing the smokes into his lungs only to keep it there until he felt the burn. Exhaling slowly, his eyes fluttered open to watch tendrils of thick gray leave his mouth and nose, curling up around the contours of his face.

"Considering our location, the tales of your excess don't surprise me," he murmured, shifting himself on the dark red cushions. "The truth in them, however, is up for debate. Much... much debate. Mmm."

Varric glanced around. He'd already soaked up every detail in this lavishly decorated room, having spent many nights lying on this very couch with this very pipe. The company was the only difference, though he wasn't exactly picky when it came to these things. He would go to whatever lengths to enjoy himself. It was his prerogative, after all, was it not?

He felt Fenris move again, this time extending his leg until his heel came to a rest just beside him. "This herb is...?"

"My favorite," the dwarf replied in his usual, charming rumble. Twisting the pipe in his hand, he took a deep breath from the smoke that rose from the illuminated herbs that burned at the very end of it. "It's efficient, doesn't stick to your clothes, and no one's any the wiser after a quick nap."

"So, essentially, this..." Fenris drew the cigarette away from his face, looking at the perfectly rolled paper with a curious light in his eyes. "... is the fabled weakness that you so often deny having."

The elf was smiling. Smiling! Granted, the smile itself was miniscule at best, no more than a lazy curl at the corner of his mouth. "Not a weakness, I think," he replied simply. A gloved hand brushed past the feathers on Fenris' clothes, smoothing up a slender, but clearly muscled thigh. "Recreation."

Fenris' breath hitched at the sensation, amplified by the seemingly pulsating feeling in his veins. He could feel almost every beat of his heart, every inch of skin, and it all felt... good. It'd been half an Age since he'd been able to relax, it seemed, and finally enjoying some time with the man who'd been forced into his company by the rather tactless Ser Hawke was most certainly an upside.

"So this 'recreation,'" Fenris began, tilting his head back until he felt the cushion give beneath the crown of his skull. He gave a quiet moan as his body relaxed muscle by muscle, only realizing the sound he'd made when he felt Varric's fingertips dig slightly just above his knee. "Why do you do it? To cloud your mind?" Opening a sage-green eye, he pulled the cigarette closer to his lips, hovering there but not taking a drag. "Is there something you want to forget?"

Varric gave a little 'huh' of disagreement. "I make sure not to forget the sort of thing most people would go to lengths not to remember," he murmured, mostly to himself, before taking another long drag and setting his pipe aside. "I'll... show you why I do it." A suggestive eyebrow arched high on his forehead. "... With your permission."

The other man gave a quiet murmur of approval, moving to sit up only to have a hand waved at him. Instead, he sat back, drawing another lungful of smoke as he watched Varric remove his gloves one at a time, revealing a pair of thick-fingered and calloused hands. Shifting his hips, if only slightly, Fenris allowed him to move onto his knees, weighing down the middle cushions as he pulled himself forward.

Curiosity ebbed into an almost blistering heat the moment Varric's index dragged over a strip of revealed flesh. Both of them had all but discarded their coats, unbuttoning them to give themselves room to breathe and to feel the cool, smoky air on their skin. This change had seemed for the best, but now he could think of no greater decision he'd ever made, this opinion of his doubling in intensity at the feeling of Varric's hair dusting over his stomach.

He bent lower. Lower, lower, and lower, only stopping an inch away from the seemingly pulsating lines and dots left by his tortuous experience. With this herb winding through his veins, however, they did not hurt. They didn't make his muscles clench and force him to shrink away.

They glowed.

The dimly lit room only tripled the light emanating the lines that ran along each tanned muscle, tracing the veins that lay beneath his skin. Even at this short distance, Varric kept his eyes open, painstakingly careful not to touch the threads of light as he curled and flicked his tongue upwards. Palms dug into the cushions on either side of Fenris' body as he made his way upwards, hovering above him, constantly aware of every movement the man made beneath him.

Whatever scrap of humility the elf retained as cast aside at the damp pressure of Varric's tongue stroking over his chest, kissing over skin he could not remember ever being touched with a hand other than his own and the Magister's.

When he finally made it all the way up to Fenris' face, Varric did not move away. They stared at each other for a long moment, sage reflecting honey, before the latter's devious mouth twitched into a smirk. He was always smirking, always so proud of himself for everything he did, each clever comment or plan gone right. It was part of Varric's charm – his undying optimism and ability to see the bright side of just about anything. On anyone else, such a trait would be cloying. But not on him. "Now do you understand?"

Before the confirmation ever reached Fenris' lips, his hand found its way to the back of Varric's neck, fighting through the warm, sluggish feeling to jerk the much wider, much heavier man down on top of him, lips crashing together and teeth clicking. A slender leg wrapped around his, yanking his hips downward to meet those underneath, and Varric found himself laughing into the kiss, even around the intrusiveness of the elf's tongue.

Oh, he definitely understood.