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If he closes his eyes, he can hear the distant memory of familiar voices.
They reach him in the rush of coastal winds, accompanied by the crash of waves as the cold morning bites the tip of his nose—he leans back into the water as past friends, foes, lovers call out from his old, worn memories. The once-familiar voices warp into something more as he squeezes his eyes, bleeding into dreams and half-hearted, unfinished fantasies; he sinks deeper into the blessed silence of water as the border between history and delusion starts to blur. There’s a certain pleasantness to this, he muses as water fills his ears. A sense of solitude, where one can really hear oneself.
Whether one wants to or not, he thinks, undercutting himself, Is a different question, though. He watches the ripples from his breath scatter across the water’s surface in the weak light and imagines ancient history breaking like those bubbles, pretends with every exhale that his past can up and vanish like the foam on the surface—
“—Dr. Figaro?” A knock breaks through the reverie, and Figaro floats back up to the present. “Dr. Figaro! Breakfast is ready, and I’m set to go out with Mithra soon so I’m here to make sure you won’t miss breakfast! Oh, by the way, Mitile is already in your room checking for bottles—”
—Right, Figaro gets up from the long-cooled bathtub and gets dressed with a few short syllables. That’s enough of that, isn’t it?
“Morning, Rutile,” he calls back; his usual kind, Southern, friendly-neighborhood-doctor’s smile falls neatly into place as he leaves the water behind. “Big day today?”
Big day today, huh, Figaro thinks as he stumbles through the hallway of the Manor, a giggling, wobbling Rutile in tow. Yeah, it’s definitely a big day when you of all people are outmatched. He spares a glance back to the crime scene, trying not to stumble as he turns his head; he can’t hold back an appreciative whistle as he takes in the damage. A few stragglers haul away the barely-conscious drinkers—an entire team fallen victim to Rutile’s iron liver—and he sends them back a sloppy salute for their valiant efforts.
“Come on, Rutile,” he shoulders his heavyweight champion burden, still maintaining his kind doctor’s role through the pounding in his own ears. “Almost there.”
“Dr. Figaroooo,” Rutile clutches Figaro’s arm in a death grip. He nuzzles into it with a surprising softness, considering the force of his fingers—and Figaro finds it oddly charming, until Rutile’s legs give out and send them both crashing through a door.
“Oh, look at that,” Figaro coughs from the impact as Rutile lands on his chest. “We’re here in your room.”
“Oh look,” Rutile giggles, never having heard Figaro stumble through his short, impossible-to-flub incantation to conveniently transport them there. “We are.” He burrows his face into Figaro’s chest. “I thought we were farther.”
“You’re drunk,” Figaro fibs easily with a soft pat on Rutile’s head. “Well, you’re here, so why don’t you go to bed?” He raises himself up on his elbows. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Nooooo,” Rutile wraps his arms around him, keeping him fixed with a pout. “Dr. Figaroooo… stay?”
“Dr. Figaro needs to rest,” he clucks back, brushing the hair out of Rutile’s eyes. “And so do you.”
“No,” Rutile repeats—at once soft, stubborn, wistful, petulant. “What I need,” he says, arms wrapping tighter. “Is you.” With that, Rutile yanks him in with a surprising amount of strength and kisses him square on the lips.
“And that’s what happened,” Figaro shrugs—shooing away the memory of Rutile’s lips on his, conveniently glossing over the vivid taste of alcohol sharp and sweet in the slide of their tongues.
To that, all Oz does is stare in frigid silence—and Figaro feels the immediate urge to hurl himself out the window, lest thunder strike him where he stands. But he holds himself in place, reminding himself of two things: one, Oz’s gaze is always that cold, that’s nothing new; and two, he doesn’t have the luxury to throw away his current and only viable source of refuge.
“That doesn’t explain why you’ve barged in here,” Oz levels him one of his looks. “Or why you won’t leave.”
“I,” Figaro starts, then shakes his head. “You’re right. That was on me. I set the bar too high. You’re definitely not the go-to person for relationship advice in the first place.”
“What about Lennox?”
“Yeah, sure, tell the person I practically raised Rutile with. Great plan.”
“Snow and White?”
“Those old farts would never stop making fun of me for it.”
“...Faust?”
“Even worse,” Figaro shakes his head again. “He’d turn me to stone on the spot.” Oz makes a face as if considering the idea for his own, and Figaro starts inching away. “But never mind all that, no need to strain your head with this stuff! Just let your ol’ pal stay here for a bit, that’s all you need to do. I’ll even clean,” he says, flashing his most charming smile.
“How long is ‘a bit’?”
“Three hundred years, to start?”
“Vox no—”
“Okay, fine, how about three weeks?”
“Vox no—”
“Three days!” Oz finally pauses, and Figaro snaps his fingers. “So that’s a yes? Great! He settles on his bed. “It’s been a while since we’ve had to squeeze into one bed, huh—”
“—Vox no—”
“Okay, I know when to make myself scarce. I’ll see myself out,” Figaro flicks open the window and summons his broom. “Thanks for nothing, ol’ buddy!”
One hiding spot down, Figaro sighs as the wind whistles past his ears. None to go.
“Oh?” A charming smile graces the view from beyond metal bars. “If it isn’t Lord Figaro!”
“Hey there,” Figaro waves a wing.
“Wonderful to see you! May I offer you some tea?” Rustica tilts his head. “Though, I don’t recall us being married—oh, were you my bride after all?” He opens the birdcage and Figaro hops out onto the offered finger. “To think I couldn’t feel the connection during our first few meetings, I must offer my profound apologies. But if you’re here, you must be—”
“—Nope, not your bride,” Figaro shifts back to his form with a wink. “Though I appreciate the willingness.”
“What is life,” Rustica chuckles behind gentlemanly hands. “But a series of surprises? If it’s in our power to make it pleasant, then we should.”
“Yeah, sure, of course,” Figaro nods. “You saw through that pretty quickly, though.” He gestures to the open birdcage.
“Everyone here at the Manor is so wonderfully unique, after all!”
“Ah,” Figaro tilts his head. “We sure are—oh?”
Before he knows it, Rustica is sweeping him into a dance—his magical harpsichord plinks away nearby as the atmosphere takes on a rose-colored glow. “Dance with me, Lord Figaro.”
“Sure, sure,” Figaro lets Rustica lead him around the room. “What’s wrong with a little fun?”
“Precisely,” Rustica beams back in that utterly charming way of his. “There’s nothing quite like a nice dance with lovely music—especially when my dear guest looks so troubled! It’d be impolite of me to not offer my hospitality.”
“You’re sharper than you let on, aren’t you?”
“Chloe does say I’m a sharp dresser,” he answers with fondness in his voice. “Though I must thank him for that.”
“Speaking of Chloe,” Figaro follows, keeping pace with Rustica’s sidestep. “He’s very important to you, isn’t he?”
“Yes!” Rustica raises his arm to spin him, and Figaro obliges. “Chloe is a truly special child, unlike anyone else in this world.”
“What would you do if, say, he offered to be your bride?”
“What a funny question,” Rustica chuckles again, voice never wavering. “I never considered it.”
“How come? You said he was important and special, like no one else in this world.” Figaro raises his arm to spin him, and Rustica sweeps gracefully into the turn. “Sounds like bride material to me.”
“He’s an entirely unique existence, my dear Chloe.” Rustica lifts the edge of his coat hem in a graceful semi-curtsy. “He dresses me in wonderful clothes, makes me delicious tea in the morning, and always helps me find my way—all with a lovely smile on his face! I must admit, I’d be lost without him. I’m very fortunate that he’s chosen to stay with me, time and time again.” He leans them both into a turn away from the empty birdcage. “He’s quite wonderful as he is.”
“But you won’t choose him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Rustica sets the pace again, never stumbling in the face of Figaro’s graceless plods. “Is there a need to make a choice, when we are already enjoying such wonderful days together?”
“Sure, things are great now.” Figaro follows along, letting Rustica do the work. “But things change, nothing lasts forever. Those wonderful days can take a sour turn—” he snaps his fingers. “—Just like that.” He catches a glimpse of Rustica’s tea set out of the corner of his eye. “Like tea left out for too long. It always turns bitter in the end.”
“I suppose it could,” Rustica stares off in the air. “One never knows what the future might bring. But,” his eyes flick back to meet Figaro’s, and the smile returns to his face. “That makes it all the more important to enjoy what time you have together, doesn’t it? Though,” he cocks his head. “Why leave tea out when it’s best enjoyed fresh? Ah, Lord Figaro, are you perhaps bad with bitter things? In that case, I highly recommend being more mindful of your time—things get bitter the longer you leave it.”
“Maybe this was a bad analogy.” Figaro shakes his head. “You wouldn’t feel sad about things getting worse between the two of you? Wouldn’t you want to avoid that?”
“Well, Lord Figaro, you say it could get worse.” Rustica hums into the air. “But couldn’t it also get even better?”
Figaro resists the urge to scoff. “He’s young, and just starting to discover this world. You think he’ll stay? Sure you don’t wanna shut him up in that little cage of yours?”
“The birdcage is for my bride, not Chloe, Lord Figaro.” He chuckles. “I’m quite the forgetful type, but it seems you are, as well?”
“Right, right, you did say that—so they’re someone you met before Chloe, huh?” Figaro shrugs. “You don’t ever consider, hmm, giving up? Trying someone else more accessible?”
“What a difficult concept,” Rustica shakes his head. “It’s far more fun to enjoy the journey, isn’t it? After all, it’s led me to so many wonderful encounters!” He cocks his head. “Oh, Lord Figaro, you always were pondering such difficult things, even back in… oh, when was it?”
“Borda Isle?”
“Perhaps?” Rustica leans over in a motion to dip Figaro—he obliges, and they rise up again in one smooth motion. “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten.”
“It wasn’t important,” Figaro steps back as the song slows to its end, and the two bow politely to each other. “Thanks for the dance, it was fun.”
“You’re welcome,” Rustica smiles, gently shutting the birdcage door back into place. “Please feel free to join me for tea sometime!”
“Sure,” Figaro tosses back with a shallow smile as he flies out of his window.
“Lord Figaro,” comes a deep, steady voice, and Figaro freezes in place.
“Ah, Leno…” Figaro looks up from inside his satchel. “You noticed?”
“I’m surprised you tried to hide among my sheep.” Lennox peers at the palm-sized Figaro sheep, and steps back as he transforms in a poof.
“Well, you know what they say—it’s always darkest under the lamp post.” Figaro dusts off some of the lingering fluff.
“Were you hiding from me, as well?”
“‘As well’?”
“You’re hiding from Rutile, and just now you called me the lamp post.” He squints behind his glasses, brows furrowed in thought. “It sounds like you were hiding from me as well.”
“You noticed?”
“It’s hard not to,” Lennox replies in his calm, even voice, never aware of the direct hits he makes. “You’ve been missing from our lessons for the past few days.” He pauses, then adds. “Mitile got bored and followed Shino to Lord Faust’s classroom.”
“Oh,” Figaro blinks, then rubs his chin. “Well, I’d better bring Faust an offering sometime as thanks.”
“I’ve already sent Mitile with a basket to today’s lessons.”
“Dependable as always, Leno.”
“It comes with the territory.”
“You always manage to get an edge in, don’t you?”
“An edge?”
“Nothing,” Figaro waves a hand. “Anyways. I’m not avoiding anyone, I’ve just been busy.”
“Busy dancing with Rustica and running away from Lord Oz?”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“Rustica told Chloe, who told Heathcliff and Rutile, who also heard from Masters Snow and White.”
“Ah,” Figaro half-laughs, half-sighs. That’s our Rutile, a real social butterfly.
“You should go see him.” Lennox starts counting his sheep. “He’s been looking for you all this time.”
“No way,” Figaro starts to wave it off with a laugh, then stops when he sees the expression on Lennox’s face. “...Has he really?”
“All this time,” Lennox confirms with a heavy gaze—and Figaro doesn’t think he imagines the weight of centuries behind it.
“It’s only been a few days, nothing to worry about.”
“Time flows differently for him, Lord Figaro.”
Yet that’s exactly why I’m doing this, he sighs to himself, resisting the urge to click his tongue.
“Lord Figaro,” Lennox’s voice breaks his internal thoughts. “Hold this.”
“Hmm? One of your sheep?”
“He hasn’t been feeling well. He’s a bit sensitive and has difficulty sleeping, so would you mind holding him until he falls asleep?”
“Sure, sure,” he smiles, accepting the sheep easily—it’s a softer substitute to the guilt that Lennox’s blunt, straightforward gaze inspires. “After all, you found me out.” He settles on the ground to sit against the nearby tree. “What do I need to do?”
“Sit there and hold him.” Lennox gives a barely perceptible smile. “He likes this spot, so it’ll be best if you don’t move. Or else you’ll wake him up.”
“Got it,” Figaro nods. “And in exchange, I have your silence?”
“You’ve always had it til now,” he nods back, and walks the rest of his sheep away.
“Dr. Figaro!”
“Wha—oh,” Figaro blinks awake, and his first instinct is to reach for his broom. “Oh dear.”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Rutile stands above him, hands at his hips, looking every inch like a certain familiar firecracker of a witch. He withers a little under his gaze as his back prickles in that familiar uncomfortable heat of distinct, undeniable wrongdoing in the face of children.
“Uh,” Figaro sweats, contemplating the cost of exposing his magic versus the potential of outrunning Rutile on his broom. “Hi, there.” He motions to the sheep in his arms. “Been taking care of this little guy.”
“Oh!” Rutile breaks into a grin and crouches to pet him; the earlier force vanishes without a trace as nostalgic affection replaces it. “Hello again!” He coos and ruffles his soft wool. “You’re a regular little sleepyhead, as usual.”
“What?”
Rutile beams at the sheep, still happily snoozing away under his hand. “This particular one is always falling asleep, you know. He can literally sleep anywhere.”
“He got me,” Figaro stares into the distance. “I’ve been had.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head and shifts the sheep over to Rutile’s lap. “Here, take over.”
“Sure,” Rutile blinks as he accepts the fluffy burden. “But why are you out here watching Mr. Lennox’s sheep?”
His mind flashes back to the gift basket, along with the past few hundred years. “Because I owe Leno one?” Though I might take it back now, considering he ratted me out.
“If he were the kind of person to call in debts, Dr. Figaro,” Rutile chuckles, with no trace of malice in the bright noise. “You’d never finish paying it off.”
“Rutile,” Figaro clutches his chest and makes a face.
“But I think that goes for me and Mitile, too.” He pets the sheep in his lap, still happily dreaming through the noise. “That’s the kind of person he is—he always takes care of people. We owe him a lot.”
“Yeah,” Figaro admits, mostly to himself. “I can relate.”
“You, too,” Rutile smiles back, looking him in the eyes. “We,” he starts, then pauses and shakes his head softly; Figaro’s eyes follow the gentle sway of his earrings in the late afternoon light. “I owe you a lot.” He lays a soft hand on Figaro’s arm, and Figaro feels the familiar prickling warmth again.
“Rutile,” he stops. That's because you don't know who I am, he thinks; the words weigh heavy in his throat. “I can’t imagine why,” he shakes his head.
“Well, other than the part where you watched over us and took care of us all this time—”
“—I only did what I should have done,” Figaro waves it off, definitely not thinking about the distinct possibility of Tiletta coming for him from beyond the grave.
“Other than that,” Rutile leans in. “I know how much you’ve been taking care of things when nobody sees. And you know, I’m really happy we ended up here! As the Sage’s Wizards, I mean. We get to spend so much time together in ways we wouldn’t have if we were still in the South—and I’ve had so much fun,” his voice drops, and Figaro’s pulse quickens as Rutile’s eyes keep him pinned in place. “Because you were always there.”
“Oh,” Figaro hurriedly breaks away. "I don’t know about that." His eyes search beyond the fields, and catch on the distant blur of the manor hanging in the horizon. “For one, we’d all be safer,” he shrugs. “Or not sore from digging in the ground all day. What a mess that was,” he pounds his shoulders. “Can’t say that was fun.”
Rutile gives him a soft—for his standards—smack. “Doctor, please. I’m glad we did all that work if it meant keeping your clinic.”
I don’t deserve that effort, he thinks. “You’re a good kid,” he says instead—he reaches out with a hand to pat his head but stops, the memory of a certain night barging in and freezing him in his tracks.
“Doctor?” Rutile blinks.
“You’re a good kid,” Figaro says again, to honest eyes he wishes he could believe. “Possideo,” he whispers inaudibly with a slight wave; in the next moment, Rutile’s eyelids start to flutter.
“...Doc…tor?”
“Too good for me, in fact.” He catches Rutile as he sinks into a deep sleep, curling up with the sheep in his arms; he settles the both of them comfortably against the tree. “Good night,” he says, brushing his hair out of his defenseless, open face—his fingers pause and, after a beat, he dares to plant a soft kiss to his forehead. “Dream of something better than me, okay?”
If he closes his eyes, he can hear the distant memory of nostalgic voices.
Joyful, fragile laughter breaks against his ears in time with the waves lapping at his feet—the cold bite of seawater is familiar and grounding against dusty, stifling ancient history, of once-sunlit potential dead and buried.
He hears friends, students, children over the crashing of water around him—a family welcoming a new addition, soldiers-in-arms gathered around a bonfire, children casting their first spell with awestruck pride. He can see them now, bright like the glitter of moonlight on the waves before him—flaunting their brilliance for him to see but never touch, to reach for but never grasp in his hands. The moon shines a path for him that he can never take, and he knows a losing game when he sees one: that kind of happiness exists in a world apart from him, a parallel plane dangled just beyond his grasp—
“—Doctor! Doctor Figaro!”
He whirls around in the water, feet almost tangling in the sand from the rush pounding in his heart.
“Doctor! I found you!” Rutile yells from the beach, waving something he can’t make out in his hand. “Wait, please don’t run away! Or else—” he pauses, looking around for ideas, until his eyes land on the shoes Figaro left in the sand. “—I’ll, I’ll steal your shoes! Then you’ll have nowhere to go!”
“Rutile,” Figaro calls back from the sea, pasting on a smile despite the distance—it helps him pretend he doesn’t have something in his throat. “Won’t you let an old man wallow in peace?”
Rutile doesn’t, obviously. “Dr. Figaro,” he starts toward the waves, tossing Figaro’s shoes to the side, rolling up his trousers just before jumping into the water. “That was very mean!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says as Rutile crosses through the cold water; despite the dread of confrontation, he can’t help but stand there and watch with affection. You’ll have to be more specific, he thinks, gaze filled with fondness as Rutile finds his way to him yet again. After all, I am regularly doing mean things.
“How could you leave me like that?” Rutile scolds. “More than once, actually, now that I think about it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Figaro repeats, twisting away to hide the smile creeping across his face.
“So you deny leaving me to babysit Mr. Lennox’s sheep?”
“Okay,” Figaro holds up his hands. “I admit to that one.” He mentally pushes out hot lips and hands along bare skin. “But just the one.”
Rutile’s hands clutch his arm. “You kissed me back. And then some.” His eyebrows raise a bit at that last part.
“You were drunk.”
“Not that drunk.”
“You—” Figaro balks at Rutile. “—You outdrank seven wizards. In one sitting.”
Rutile shrugs, his earrings dangling with the motion. “I could’ve gone for an even ten.” Then he blinks and shakes his head. “Wait, that’s not the point. Dr. Figaro,” his hands close around Figaro’s own, the warmth spreading over his frozen fingers. “Look at me.”
“Rutile…”
“I’m the one who kissed you first. And I liked it. I don’t know if you’re avoiding me because you feel bad about it, but I’m here to tell you.” His eyes take on that strong-willed gleam so familiar to Figaro over the recent years, and he feels something inside crumble just a tiny, tiny bit. “I liked it, because I like you a lot.”
“You could’ve picked a better person,” Figaro scratches his head.
“Nope,” Rutile beams, so sincerely that Figaro’s heart aches to believe in it. “I picked a kind, handsome, generous, wonderful person. A real neighborhood gentleman, and an upstanding member of the community—I could go on.”
“You mean like a friendly neighborhood older-brother figure, right?”
“‘Older brother’—oh Doctor!” Rutile smacks his arm with affection. “And funny, too, see?”
“Yeah, funny,” Figaro winces at the impact. “Thanks.” He shakes his head and sighs, gently prying his hand out of Rutile’s grasp. “But Rutile, you really can—and should—do better than me. You’re young, you have so many more years ahead of you! I’m sure you can find someone more fun and interesting to be around than ol’ Dr. Figaro here?”
“But what if I don’t want to find someone else?” Rutile pulls out the thing he was waving from the shore—it’s an old sketchbook, and Figaro faintly recognizes it from the shelf of his clinic. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been alone all this time, you know. There have been people back home, and then we’ve gone and met so many different people once we came here. But,” Rutile flips to a page. “One person has always stuck out over the others.”
Figaro takes the offered sketchbook and looks at it: it’s one of his usual masterpieces, and he can tell from the sunny greens and shining yellows drawn in sprawling, organic patterns that it’s a self-portrait. What accompanies the artistic rendition of Rutile is something like a foundation, another pattern drawn in tandem with overwhelmingly familiar greens and blues. The strong, stable lines intertwine with the wild, rambling growth of Rutile’s branches, and his eyes follow as they weave together—straight lines the undeniable color of his eyes giving the shining vines a place to be, providing support for them to grow.
“Well,” Figaro closes the cover over the impossible rendition and hands it back to Rutile. “It can’t be me,” he laughs, smiling away the false hope.
“Liar,” Rutile says, pressing it back into Figaro’s chest. “I know you can tell. You’ve always been able to.”
“What if I really can’t this time?” This is for your own good.
“You’re lying,” Rutile stares him down in that endless optimism of his. “It’s you, Dr. Figaro—it’s always been you, whether you want to believe it or not.” He cocks his head. “And if you really won’t believe me, well.” He gives him a daring grin. “We can go ask Mr. Leno. Let’s see what he says.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Would that work?” Rutile furrows his brows and makes a fierce face at him. “How’s this? Is it working?”
“I,” Figaro sighs, and then sighs again until the short breaths turn into shaky laughter, the sounds bubbling up from a place he didn’t know still existed inside him. “I don’t know, Rutile. What am I going to do with you?”
It’d be so easy, if he thinks about it. It’d be so easy to whisper those familiar syllables and vanish again, this time to a place he knows a wizard of Rutile’s level can’t reach. It’d also be far too easy to just stand here and keep lying, driving him out of the water with well-placed words, sending him back into that warm, happy parallel world where he belongs. It’d be so, so easy to leave Rutile hanging and go further out into the cold water, deeper and deeper until those bright eyes can’t see through him anymore.
But the water is cold against his feet, his eyes sting from the wind, and maybe, just maybe, he is tired. Or maybe Rutile’s optimism has infected him somehow, as their smiles mirror each other above the water, and his better judgment has gone to shit. Either way they’re both terrible excuses, and he’s a terrible, weak man who has maybe had enough of wallowing.
“What do you say, Doctor?” Rutile takes his hands again.
“I’m warning you,” he breathes out, the words spilling from his lips before his better judgment can stop him. “You might get bored of me, or sick of me, or both—who knows what the future might bring?”
“Or we might end up having a lot more fun than expected! Like you said, who knows what the future might bring?” Rutile charges ahead, tugging him to shore. “We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them. But for now, let’s just enjoy this, okay?”
“Okay,” Figaro gives in, leaving the water behind. “I guess I could try.”
If he closes his eyes, he can hear the pulsing of their hearts as their bodies press together.
It’s actually such a waste to close his eyes, though—not when the sight of Rutile undone is so alluring, vivid eyes and kiss-swollen lips drawing him in as Rutile's eager hands dive under his layers to peel them away. He drinks in the sight as his own hands explore in turn, greedy in its reveal of smooth skin, inhaling that familiar sweet scent of warm spring and blooming flowers with every move. The urge to feel those pretty lips on his drives him constantly forward, chasing his mouth with every breath, and he smiles despite himself as he feels the delicate tangle of fingertips in his hair start to get rougher.
“Doctor,” Rutile breathes between kisses. “Doctor,” he pants, and Figaro closes his mouth with his own.
“Shh,” Figaro mouths over his lips, chin, throat, collarbone—and down to his heart. “Leave it to me,” he whispers, with all the tenderness of his kind, Southern, friendly-neighborhood-doctor self.
But in the next moment his world goes spinning as he tumbles into the sheets—and his vision settles to the sight of Rutile above him, hands pushing Figaro down flat on his back. The eyes staring down at Figaro take on a new, surprising glint, one that if he had to choose a word to describe it—which he would never do outside of this room—it’d be hungry.
“Wait,” Figaro holds out a hand. “Wait.”
“Hmm?” Rutile blinks at him. “What’s wrong? Oh, do you need a pillow for your back?”
“We’re,” Figaro motions between the two of them. “We’re doing it like this?”
“Oh!” Rutile giggles, even as his hands have already made their way down to stroke him up. “Well, sure, we can try it that way sometime, if you want! But tonight,” Rutile sweetly pins down his hands. “I just really want to take care of you, Doctor.” He ducks down to give him a peck on his forehead for reassurance. “Don’t worry—I’ll be gentle!”
“Rutile,” Figaro drapes a hand over his face. He still laughs, despite it all. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”