Work Text:
By the time Clorinde steps out of the bathroom, Wriothesley has managed to convince Neuvillette to eschew the armchair for the bed – almost a pity, as she’ll have to find him another gift. Almost a pity, for it’s not everyday the Chief Justice can be found underdressed on her bed, the white silk of his shirt incongruous amongst her collection of cushions. Wriothesley’s pinned him down by virtue of resting his head against Neuvillette’s thigh, and Neuvillette has reciprocated the favour with one hand buried deep in his hair.
The real pity is Fontanian expectations for duty and service, preventing Clorinde from reaching for a kamera. Instead, she moves Wriothesley’s legs to make space for herself on her own bed. He’s ridiculously good at taking up space; consequently, he’s never allowed to sleep in the middle.
“Told you I could do it,” Wriothesley tells her, a lazy smile on his lips.
Neuvillette’s hand slips to cradle his chin, and Clorinde has the satisfaction of watching Wriothesley’s smile falter, his pupils dilating. Fontaine’s Chief Justice is scrupulously fair, after all. She flicks Wriothesley’s forehead, and the man catches her hand and leaves a kiss against her wrist.
Clorinde replies by pressing two fingers against her lips, then against Neuvillette’s cheek. Someday she’ll have to wrangle his skincare routine out of him, if the day ever comes where she’s not too busy savouring the moment. Neuvillette leans into the point of contact, a flicker that Clorinde has come to recognise as deliberation passing over his face, before he hauls Wriothesley up by his terribly loose tie and returns the kiss to him.
When they break apart, Clorinde eyes the flush on Wriothesley’s face thoughtfully. “Did you keep the tie on for this reason, Your Grace?”
Wriothesley only laughs, and kisses her again.