Work Text:
Tax season always increases Keith's workload. There are more meetings, more forms, more files, more everything. While he can delegate to his staff to a degree, he's the one who wears the fancy signet ring, so he's the one who has to give the final yes or no on every important decision. Some members of the nobility can indulge in whatever pastimes they like, but the Duke of Claes has significantly more responsibilities than most.
With all that said, it’s late when Keith finishes his work for the day, but he isn't the only one still up.
The hallways of the manor are sparsely lit in deference to Katarina’s desire to “be economical with our funds”. (The lights are all powered by magic, which is easy to come by given the magical talents of the family, but it’s easier to dim the lights at sundown than to change his sister’s mind when she’s determined to fret.) It makes it easy to tell that Nicol's office is still occupied. Keith can see the light shining through the crack under the door as he approaches.
There's a benefit that I hadn't considered, thinks Keith as he knocks on the door.
“Who is it?,” calls Nicol, sounding distracted. Given that he’s surrounded by piles of paper that reach even higher than the ones surrounding Keith's desk, that’s not surprising in the least.
“You really ought to leave your work at the Prime Minister's office,” Keith says, instead of announcing himself. He comes up to lean against the arm of Nicol’s chair and brushes Nicol’s bangs off of his face.
“My staff can’t leave until I do. This way, they get to go home to their families instead of waiting on me.” Nicol leans his head into Keith’s hand for a moment, then sighs and makes to lean back over his work.
“And what about your family, Prime Minster Ascart?” Keith plucks the pen from Nicol’s hand before it can touch the pages again. “Will my sister and I be left weeping widows amidst your battles with,” he glances at the papers on the desk, “variable import levies? Really? The council is still on about those?”
Nicol huffs, amused, and Keith can tell that he’s won because the man doesn’t try to retrieve his pen. “The levies are important. And your sister is spending the night with my sister, so I don’t think she’s going to be weeping over me all that much.”
“Ah, but that means that my wife has abandoned me to my empty bed in her efforts to frolic with yours. Oh, the overwhelming despair that I now wallow in. My tears will drown the nation with their abundance.” The lines coming out of Keith’s mouth could be something out of one of Katarina and Sophia’s florid romance novels if they weren't spoken in the driest deadpan that Keith can manage.
This time, instead of a quiet chuckle, Nicol actually laughs out loud. His laughter is a low, rolling sound that Keith delights to hear.
“Alright, I get it,” he groans as he levers himself out of his chair. “I’ll come soothe your heartaches with my company.”
“You’re going to eat a proper meal, too.” Keith says, curling his fingers around Nicol’s wrist. It’s a gesture that doubles as a tender caress and a way to keep Nicol from escaping -- Keith developed his caretaker skills through a lifetime of herding Katarina around, after all.
“Yes, yes,” Nicol sighs as he lets Keith lead him down the hall. “I'm assuming you’re going to join me? Since, given our similar work habits, I'm fairly sure that neither of us has eaten since lunch?”
Keith’s stomach answers the question for him, rumbling loudly in complaint.
“Ah. Yes. I suppose I could do with a bite to eat.”
Heat flushes up Keith’s neck. Thank god he played along with Katarina’s “dim the lights” plan. Nicol is the only other person here, of course, but it’s still embarrassing that his body has betrayed him like this. The one silver lining is that Nicol is laughing again.
“Oh, Keith,” Nicol sighs and leans his head onto Keith’s shoulder. His hair smells like the homemade lemongrass shampoo that Katarina has started foisting on all her friends and loved ones.
“That is my name,” Keith says, pretending that he’s not flustered and that he has full control over his composure.
Instead of saying anything more, Nicol presses his lips to the thin curve of bare neck that peeks out between Keith’s jaw and shirt collar.
“Nicol! We’re in public!” Keith bats at Nicol’s head, and the other man straightens up, grinning.
“We’re at home,” Nicole corrects Keith, squeezing his hand in consolation. “It’s nothing that the servants haven’t seen before.”
“Katarina’s shamelessness is rubbing off on you…” Keith grumbles, but lets Nicol take the lead in getting them moving down the hall again. If he squeezes Nicol’s hand in return as they walk, neither man comments on it.