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"I suspect you have questions." He did. Of course he did. Maybe not the ones Solas expected, though.
"A few, yeah." Solas' lips twitched at that, something like a smile—like the distant memory of a smile—appearing for the briefest of moments.
"There is no need for secrecy any longer," Solas told him, each word spoken with an absolute finality. "I have succeeded. I have failed. Ask what you will."
"Are you okay?"
That clearly came as a surprise, Solas frowning at him. He didn't answer, and Varric took a step nearer. He did not rise.
This was how he'd found him. Obviously, he'd removed the Veil—the Fade, or what had been the Fade, bled into this world all over now. It was chaos. Varric had expected to find him triumphant, but instead he seemed despondent, crumpled against a wall. The ancient armor he wore seemed to swallow him now, as if it alone held him together, as if it alone defined him. Varric didn't buy it, though. He took another step closer.
He kept expecting Solas to bolt. He had, after all, been avoiding Varric for so long. And there were times when he felt he'd drawn so close to finding Solas, only to discover an empty room, recently abandoned. He approached now as one might approach a wild animal, even the steady way Solas held his gaze appearing guarded and uncertain. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Solas expected to die for what he had done, and his stomach clenched hard with it.
Another step. Another. Another, but to the side, Solas' frown deepening. He didn't stop now, walking over beside him and sliding down the wall. They were so close that Varric could reach out and touch him, but instead he maintained a careful—but minimal—distance. "Why are you here?" Maker, Solas sounded wrecked.
"I've been looking for you for years," he pointed out, "did you really think I'd stop now?"
"Why are you here?" Solas insisted. Once, he would have carefully explained his meaning. Perhaps even playfully, teasingly. Now he left it to Varric to understand, and he felt a little heartened by that, but mostly sad. Because Solas, the way he was right now, seemed broken. Minimal answers and a flat tone, even questions sounding more like statements. It was so different.
But it was still Solas. Still the man he'd known.
"You looked like you could use a friend," he said after a time. Solas just stared at him, head turned to the side to continue meeting Varric's eyes.
"Are we friends, Varric?" Shit. That hurt. That hurt a lot, actually. Not the doubt—he'd expected that—but the despair in his voice. It was a question, but it really wasn't. He'd already decided his own guilt, decided that he could not be understood, could not be forgiven, could not be accepted. Could not be cared for.
Could not be…
Well. There was time for that word, later. Hopefully.
"Yeah," he said, voice thick. "Yeah, we are."
Solas kept staring at him, but at least he wasn't retreating. And Varric… well, he was always the kind to push a little too far, after all. Ask too many questions. Tease a bit too much. Certainly the kind to pry too deep. He thought it was part of why they'd made him Viscount, too; he dug incessantly. And what he cared for, he worked hard to preserve.
So he lifted his hand and placed it over Solas', feeling—and seeing, for that matter—tension stiffen his entire frame. Then he squeezed, gently, slotting his fingers between Solas', his palm to the back of Solas' hand, all his armor getting a bit in the way and not very pleasant feeling but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because Solas didn't pull his hand away.
He looked away, though. He looked away and he closed his eyes. And Varric, well. He pushed too far. He talked too much. But even he knew when to stay silent, and kept his hand in place as tears slipped down Solas' face. He cried silently, but he cried. Varric thought that was a good thing.
He squeezed his hand again.