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Anduin looks over as the window lets in the warm spring breeze. Winter has given way to the climate the prince is most familiar with, back in his kingdom of summer. He did not mind the freezing winds and what felt like eternal snows of the mountains here, but the heat is kinder to his aching bones. His recovery is nearing its end, he can feel in him that the call of Pandaria is once again being heard in his subconscious, in the deepest parts of his mind. Anduin knows he has to leave the Tavern in the Mists before next autumn or he might as well never leave.
This place, this scenery, it all still makes him a bit dizzy, if he is completely honest with himself. How can a material plane be as magnificent as Pandaria. If Anduin were to die soon, he would like to be buried in this land, as foreign as it may be to him. Anywhere his eyes land, he finds wonder and delight. The karsts, the architecture, the people, Wrathion.
Wrathion is there, as always. He sits on the forefront of Anduin's thoughts, growing so dangerously close to him and shattering carefully built walls one after another, just with his voice and person. It is a perilous situation, what the both of them are engaged into. A relation that is built on distrust, yet daring and ever so slightly different than anything Anduin has ever felt. Attraction, desire, companionship, want, those are all words that could describe how the prince saw the dragon, but nothing other than conventional friendship had blossomed between them. Now that Anduin knows he will leave in two seasons, would it be worth anything ? Is the payback enough to pay for the crippling risk of rejection ? Ah, this is all so unfulfilling. So unsatisfying.
The prince has enjoyed their futile dance around one another. He has actively participated in it, encouraged it, started it. He had thought it would resolve itself swiftly enough, given the other party's impulsive temper. And yet, here they were.
Anduin turns back from the window. He is in Wrathion's bathroom and the dragon sits across, face staring at his reflection in the mirror. His routine is the longest, and Anduin has taken the habit of waiting for him in his apartments. The smell of his cologne fills the air, Wrathion shirtless in silk pants and his turban on the floor. His pupils dilate slightly when his gaze meets the icy blue of the other in the room, as if he had forgotten he was even here, and was now surprised at the sight of the prince of Stormwind resting comfortably in his rooms. They stare at each other for longer than is proper, falling into their regular pattern of tiring longing. Everything screams, begging them to break the unbearable tension.
The new day's light brings out his warm skin. From Anduin's angle, he is almost shining. The brightest gem of Azeroth, perhaps, in the eyes of someone who adores the dragon as much as the prince does. Wrathion glows from the bottom of his soul to the tip of his clawed fingers. Anduin wonders how those would feel travelling through his hair, travelling on a long journey down his scarred body. Erotica.
Wrathion calls for him. He asks if his hairbrush is anywhere near him. Anduin is fidgeting with it. The dragon walks over and grabs it dramatically, giving a jokingly offended look to the blonde, yet letting his talons linger for a little while on Anduin's pink hands. Blood travels to the tip of his round ears and the prince tucks a piece of his golden hair behind it, highlighting his blush for the other to see, shamelessly attracted. No use pretending. Wrathion brushes his curls in practiced movements. His hair has grown a bit since Anduin first saw him without his turban. Is it a voluntary choice of visage ? Or the natural order of things ? So many things are left unanswered when it comes to the dragon.
Lost in questioning, the prince does not register Wrathion approaching. A sharp finger brushes ever so delicately at his jaw, coming from behind. The touch sends electric shocks down Anduin's vertebral column and expands into every extremities. From the first time he shook the other's hand, he knew this was reckless. His touch still had the same deafening effect on him after all this time spent together. There was simply no stopping it.
"Your lion's mane is in severe need of proper treatment, my prince" Wrathion declares with a sneer, hairbrush in one hand, the one that is not on Anduin's jaw.
He lets his finger travel to the prince's chin and lifts it subtly, awaiting his consent before proceeding. Anduin does not really have a choice there, if the Black Prince desires anything from him, the White Pawn will oblige. He will give and he will take and together they will make one. And so if Wrathion wants to brush his hair, he shall do so, as if it was his own he was combing through. Anduin nods and the dragon travels to his back, his blind spot. He lets him. Today is a day for trust.
The brush journeys from root to end. Blonde hair is tamed and styled neatly under the dragon's careful manipulations. It feels good and Anduin shivers lightly. Wrathion asks if the temperature is still too cold for the human, asks if he should shut the window.
"Shut the blind, no need for the window"
The blind is closed, leaving both of them in the dark, cast out from the rest of the world in their own galaxy.
Anduin turns around and kisses Wrathion. To his delight, he is met with as much enthusiasm as he'd have hoped