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“Varric.” He grunted and kept writing. He felt like he finally had the thread of how this conversation was supposed to go. “Varric,” Solas insisted and he sighed.
“What?”
“You’re cold.”
“I'm… wait.” He frowned at the page, distracted now. “What’re you on about?”
“Your hands,” Solas said gently, “they’re trembling.”
“Don’t worry so much, Chuckles. Just been writing a while. Speaking of…” he set the quill back down on the parchment and heard a sigh behind him.
“Very well,” Solas said, and distantly Varric marveled at the fact that he’d won for once…
Only to find his chair yanked back and an entire elf settling firmly over his lap. Solas was too tall for this, his legs hooked over the armrests in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, and Varric’s face pressed just below his collar, but he was stubborn. “Kinda in the way, Chuckles,” Varric pointed out weakly, only for Solas to live up to the nickname, a warm laugh he felt as much as heard.
Then there were hands wrapping around his wrists and he dropped the quill as Solas pulled them under the drape of his tunic. The other man flinched a little at the contact between his warm waist and Varric’s hands, which were, admittedly, colder than he had realized.
He half thought that Solas would get frisky but instead he just settled down, leaning against the back of the chair and letting his eyes slip shut. “Hey, um,” he trailed off, squeezing idly at Solas’ waist instead.
“Mm?”
“You’re really stubborn, y'know?” Solas snorted and didn’t open his eyes.
“I have been called worse.”