Work Text:
It takes over a decade for Wriothesley to finally do something. Nearly fifteen years. The Archon has come and gone, Monsieur Neuvillette turns out to be a dragon, and Wriothesley sports more gray hairs than not. It’s stress—that’s what Sigewinne tells him. “Late thirties,” she’ll say with a click of her tongue, “and you’re more salt than pepper. Do you want your heart to give out?”
No, but it’s hard when it nearly beats out of his chest with every meeting that he and Neuvillette share. Even now, the thump, thump is loud enough to hear in his ears. Wriothesley swallows as Neuvillette leans across the space, those deft, clawed fingers brushing across his cheekbone.
“A fluff,” he muses. “Pay it no mind.”
There was no fluff. Wriothesley has to pay it mind because Neuvillette’s intent is as obvious as how his fingers linger when they trace the scar underneath his eye. He’s done this before. Wriothesley always turns a blind eye.
Without thinking, Wriothesley catches his wrist. And then panics. He usually ignores this, laughs it off, and then the meeting goes back to normal. It’s always rinse and repeat, nothing but familiar motions, only his heart will beat twice as fast, he’ll feel like he’s run a marathon, and then he’ll go home and tug one out in the shower. Neuvillette is always graceful about it, polite as he pulls away. But this time—
Fourteen years, three months, and three days come to a standstill as Neuvillette stills, watching him with a curious expression. Wriothesley knows because he’s counted, calendars and journals full of notations through the years. He’s pathetic, hopelessly spineless, and he’s pined for so, so, long.
“Your Grace?” prompts Neuvillette. But he doesn’t tug away. His skin is cool and smooth underneath Wriothesley's fingers.
Wriothesley's face crinkles wryly. They’ve known each other for too long to be using such titles. He smooths his thumb across the sharp bone of Neuvillette’s wrist as he thinks. This is supposed to be a meeting. They are hashing out budget reports, not sharing tea in their downtime.
“Wriothesley?”
Oh. Wriothesley looks at Neuvillette whose expression is terse, a line between his brow. Studying him—Neuvillette is always studying him as if he doesn’t quite know how mortals function. He probably doesn’t. He’s always watching Wriothesley as if he holds the answers.
“I’m—It’s…” There is something about Neuvillette’s expression that nags Wriothesley. That furrow between his brow doesn’t seem like just confusion, it’s deeper than that. Off-putting. Wriothesely aches to kiss it away.
“Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley did not realize he’d leaned closer, crossing the distance between them instinctually. He’s always been drawn to Neuvillette like the tide to the moon. Neuvillette doesn’t retreat even though Wriothesley is only inches away from him.
Neuvillette’s gaze tips down, settling on Wriothesley's mouth, and his lips part, tongue caught between his teeth.
Wriothesley moves and cups Neuvillette’s face with his free hand. He presses their mouths together in a chaste kiss, testing the waters, pulse raging in his ears because what the fuck is he doing?
And what the fuck is Neuvillette doing? He moans softly and kisses him back, tongue sweeping across Wriothesley's lips without a shred of hesitation. Heated and passionate. Neuvillette’s hand curls around the back of Wriothesley's neck and settles there, holding him. Wriothesley can’t retreat, he can’t pull away—not that he would with Neuvillette responding so eagerly.
It’s messy and unpracticed, and it’s clear that Neuvillette is rusty. There is a little technique there; Neuvillette isn’t entirely without experience. Too keen perhaps. Wriothesley wonders just how long he’s wanted this too and laughs against Neuvillette’s mouth before pulling back. “Slow down,” he says, pressing a short, sweet kiss against Neuvillette’s mouth.
“I—It has been…” Neuvillette grunts softly. “I do not wish to slow down. More please.”
“So polite,” muses Wriothesley, tracing Neuvillette’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “There’s plenty of time. No need to rush.”
“I have waited long enough.”
That makes Wriothesley raise an eyebrow and tuck the thought away for later. He’ll ask. He’s desperate to know just how long Neuvillette has been pining because the kiss they shared wasn’t one of a man mildly interested. It wasn’t curious, it wasn’t just going with the flow; it was consuming in a way that bears feelings, and Wriothesley would be lying if that didn’t spark heat in his gut.
“How many times have you told me to be patient?”
“Wriothesley—”
“Alright, alright, but savor it, at least.” He means it as a mild tease, tipping back Neuvillette’s face slightly for a better angle.
This time when they kiss it is slower and sweeter. Neuvillette humors him, tongue sweeping across Wriothesley's lips, through his mouth, down and along his tongue as he tastes him in the same way he does his fancy waters. It is lazy almost, Wriothesley leaning over Neuvillett’s lap with one hand braced against his thigh.
Neuvillette’s tongue is forked. He tastes like the ocean, like salt-brine, and Wriothesley can’t get enough. The fifteen years of his waffling is worth it for this one moment.
Their meeting overruns as they get lost in themselves. Sedene knocks on the door, too polite to barge in, and when Neuvillette doesn’t answer as expected, she slams her fist against it instead.
Wriothesley pauses. “Should we…?”
Neuvillette laughs as his grip against Wriothesley's neck tightens to keep him there. “Ignore her. Now, more please.”
Insufferably polite. Neuvillette is going to be the death of him. But, Wriothesley is a simple man: what Neuvillette asks for, Neuvillette gets—which is one last grin before Wriothesley leans in for another.