Some Loghain/Maric I found half-finished in a folder and thought I'd finish up. Spoilers for The Stolen Throne.
1.
The first time was in the Wilds.
It was rough, fumbling, half-fueled out of a desperation to keep warm. Maric was feverish, skin warm against Loghain's. Loghain whispered the same question over and over, making sure Maric wanted this, wanted their flesh to press together and their limbs to tangle. Maric only ever said yes. All Loghain had to do was to ask, he said. He didn't even know him, but he trusted him.
He had lost too much, it was too soon, and when Maric tried to cup his face gently he snapped. Nothing was gentle after that.
2.
Loghain was important now, or so Maric told him in the night. Look how far you've come, Maric would say, smiling like it was a private joke as his fingers combed through Loghain's curls. He knew Maric didn't mean for it to sound cruel, but that was the nature of the truth.
They were separated for the cause, but it was fine, they told themselves privately. Maric missed the quite strength, the knowledge that he was protected even when he might not want to be. He missed the strong jaw, how his eyebrows furrowed when tackling a problem, the way he smoothed the creases of old maps when planning battles. It was for the war, Maric told himself, and he pushed himself so that Loghain would be proud when they met again.
Loghain didn't miss any part of Maric. At least, that's what he told himself.
3.
Loghain hated Maric, the first night he slept with Katriel. He shouldn't. They had never been in love. They had just used each other for stress, whether it be ruling or battle. It was Rowan he should like, that would make his desires natural, and soon 'should' and 'do' twisted up in his mind and he, in his earnest confusion and unhappiness, found himself confessing himself to the wrong person. She forgave him long before he forgave himself.
4.
Maric was in love with two people at once, and neither of them were the one he was betrothed to.
5.
When the war ended, Maric gave Loghain a Terynship and told him he was important. What he was was far away. They grew apart, even as they repaired a nation. Loghain was a hero and Maric a legend. They were best friends in the eyes of the people. Their lives were filled with lingering touches and avoided eyes. Friends didn't treat each other like that.
When Loghain was in the capital he wanted to escape. When he was in his own city he wanted to escape. He did not know where he wanted to run. The nightmares plagued him no matter where he was.
It was not Maric he finally found comfort in.
6.
Loghain was not alone again. When his wife died, Anora was there. She lost a mother, and they had each other. It was hard. Nothing had ever been quite this hard, despite what the bloody nightmares told him.
He would hold his daughter when she needed it, and it was not his dreams he worried about for once.
7.
They were widowers, they were too old, they had a country to attend to. The words sounded false even as Loghain said them. He said them against the grain of his throat, staring out the window, fingers gripping the ledge so tightly they were white.
It took only the brush of Maric's hand at his temple for his reasoning to come crashing down around his head.
They found what little comfort they could with each other. Loghain was a harsh man, all sharp edges and words. Maric had been a king so long he had forgotten how to be anything else. They argued, hot words exchanged with fists clenched. Sometimes the arguing was enough. It made Loghain feel alive in a way little else did.
Usually though, it was being curled up in that giant bed Maric insisted on having (must we really, it's Orlesian), soft sheets against leathered skin, two men who were old enough to know better returning to the same desperation to keep warm. Loghain knew Maric now, and he trusted him.
8.
It didn't last. It never did.