Work Text:
Wriothesley pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s been staring at the same budget sheet for what must be the last thirty minutes, the numbers swimming in his vision. He doesn’t suffer from dyscalculia, but he can’t keep the numbers on the spreadsheet straight. They waver and wiggle, swapping places with each other like wicked little gremlins. When he blinks, they’re back in place, just like that, easy as you please, until he really starts to look at them again. Then they resume their dancing, spiraling around the cells and columns and rows.
His head pounds. Because of his frustration, he tells himself as he rubs his thumb and fingers beneath his eyes. Massaging his temples, he sits back in his chair and groans.
It’s not just the numbers dancing around. The whole world seems a little slippery. When he drops his hand and opens his eyes, his office is fuzzy around the edges and slides sideways. Which isn’t normal, but he’ll blame it on exhaustion. He’s been working late most nights this week, burning the midnight oil until early in the morning. This time of year is always messy, crime spiking as people escape their homes after a long, cold winter.
Absently, he reaches down to rub his calf. There’s a dull ache in his legs, in both of them, like he worked himself too hard in the Pankration Ring the other day and now his muscles are protesting. Except that he hasn’t been in the ring for at least a week. Weird. Maybe the lack of sleep is catching up to him. Maybe he should call it a day at five exactly—hah—and turn in early. Hah.
Exhaling heavily, he sets his pen aside and pulls his datebook across his budgeting spreadsheet. He flicks his gaze to the clock, realizes it’s just going on ten in the morning, and he groans, a little starved for air. That’s a weird feeling, and he doesn’t like it at all, so he chooses to ignore it.
Almost ten. Which means—
A knock on his office door, a faint clanging sound, and then the door is thrown open, because Sigewinne never waits for his permission to enter. That, he supposes, is fair; she’s more a part of Meropide than he ever will be. She was here before and she’ll be here after.
He rubs his chest, taking another, hungry breath.
“Your Grace!” she calls happily. Only Sigewinne can enter a budget meeting with happiness. Still, he manages not to grimace as she hops her way up the stairs, which is a small miracle, really.
“Here,” he says, waving as she crests the top of the stairs. His expression falls at the sight of her.
Clutched in her hands is a thick stack of papers. She’s prepared, and that conjures in him a deep-seated dread. He really doesn’t want to have this meeting, he wants… he wants a cup of piping hot tea and a bowl of soup, actually, and while the former is a common craving, the latter is most certainly not. He hasn’t had soup since he lived on the streets, not wanting the reminder of… everything. The charity, the pity. The shit situation.
Sigewinne peers at him as she bounces her way into one of the chairs facing his desk. “You’re distracted today,” she says.
He waves her off, surprised by how cool the air feels against his fingers. The whole office feels a little cold, and he reaches for his jacket, tugging it off the back of the chair and onto his shoulders. The throbbing ache in his legs grows a little less distant, a little more persistent, a little more present.
“Just a lot going on,” he admits, offering her a wan smile.
“Are you getting enough sleep?” she asks.
And because she can sus out his lies better than anyone else, he says, “Sigewinne, come on. You know me.”
“Mmhmm.” Her eyes narrow. “So, you’re not getting enough sleep.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, ignoring the chill running down his spine that has nothing to do with her uncanny ability to nail him to the wall and everything to do with how bloody cold it is in his office. Briefly, he wonders if someone’s messing with the temperature in the Fortress. He’ll have to find out—And do some yelling if they are. Homeostasis is more important here, underwater, where moisture is a killer, than in most other places. “Really,” he adds. “Fine.”
She doesn’t look like she believes him. Frankly, he’s not sure he believes himself, either, but she doesn’t need to know that. She just needs to go over her budget for the next quarter, which he hopes isn’t related to that pile of papers.
Of course, her budget is related to that pile of papers, because that pile of papers turns out to be a whole slew of items she wants him to special order for the infirmary. The trouble with Sigewinne, too, is that she’s incredibly persuasive. And given that Meropide is autonomous, they probably do need a good number of the machines she starts wheedling for. He does his best to walk her back and corral her—they don’t need another x-ray machine, even if this new one is somehow safer, mostly because he can’t justify it in his budget, but he caves and lets her get a state-of-the-art autoclave because she’s just too good with her arguments and he’s… he’s tired.
He’s so tired. Several times, he finds he’s agreed to something outrageous because he zoned out and lost the conversation entirely.
“You’re not fun like this,” Sigewinne accuses him some twenty minutes into their meeting.
He stares at her. “I’m not—I—What?”
“Bargaining with you for supplies is half the fun, but you’re agreeing to almost everything,” she says.
He looks at the notes he’s managed to take, catching the quick sum he’s somehow managed to do for the tools he’s agreed to, and he grimaces. “I said no to the x-ray machine,” he points out.
She gives him a look that says she knew he was going to say no to that, that she’d only included it in her list to shift his perception of reality. He should’ve seen that. He’s usually much better at seeing that. Why didn’t he see that?
Shutting his eyes, he rubs them with thumb and forefinger until color blossoms behind his closed lids.
“We should reschedule,” she says, collecting her things.
He drops his hand, startled. “What? No. We don’t—Why would we reschedule?”
“You’re off,” she says.
“I’m not off.” But he is. Between the growing ache in his legs, the chill in the air, the way everything is swimming around in his head, something is definitely off. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” She slides out of her chair. “We’ll reschedule,” she says again, definitively.
“Well, fine.” He shoves his own chair back. “I was going to head to the ring anyway.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “In this state?”
“And what state is that?” he drawls, rocking to his feet.
The world spins. Lurches. His stomach twists and rolls, his gorge rising. His legs ache, and his knees buckle. He catches himself on his desk as he goes down, but there’s no way to cover that massive, massive stumble.
“That state exactly,” she says dryly, setting her papers on his desk. She comes around the corner and presses her gloved hand to his forehead.
He jerks back. “I’m fine,” he says, even though, at this point, they both know that’s a lie. But he’s not Neuvillette, he doesn’t try to be honest when he doesn’t want to be.
“You’re coming down with something,” she says, dropping her hand. “And given how hard you’ve been working lately, if you don’t slow down, you’re only going to make it worse.”
“I can—”
“Go to your apartment to rest,” she tells him, cutting him off.
Now, he narrows his eyes. “Why would I do that?”
“Because if you collapse in front of the inmates, that’s going to do a number on your reputation, and you know it.” She crosses her arms. “Do you really want to undercut yourself in front of them like that?”
He hates that she’s right. Hates that she has, very effortlessly, manipulated him into this corner. She’s always been too clever for his good. “Fine,” he grumbles, standing slower this time. When the world doesn’t wobble and his knees don’t give out—his legs still ache something fierce—he exhales quietly with relief. “I’ll take the rest of the day.”
“And tomorrow,” she says.
“I—”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“I’m not sick,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “Denial isn’t a good look on you. Your Grace.” She adds the title like it’s an afterthought. When she’s in nurse mode, it is. And she’s definitely in nurse mode right now.
“Let me at least speak with Etienne about what needs managing before I go,” he says, giving in.
“You have until eleven before I come knocking,” she says, and if it sounds like a threat, well. It probably is.
At eleven thirty, Wriothesley makes it back to his apartment in Meropide, locking the deadbolts behind him. He wrestles himself out of his boots, finally allowing himself to relax. Immediately, he starts to shiver uncontrollably. He remembers the last time he had a fever. Remembers shivering, miserable and alone, in the back corner of an alley. Remembers the aching pain of it. The biting cold of it.
He throws his jacket over the back of a nearby chair and trudges into his small bedroom. Shucking his vest, his shirt, his pants, he climbs into his pajamas. And then, shivering still, he puts on two pairs of socks.
As he throws a quilt over his bed and climbs into it, he grimaces. Sigewinne’s right: he can’t command Meropide when he’s like this. Can’t afford to show human weakness to the vast majority of inmates. Oh, sure, a good number of them are here for stupid, idiotic things. But plenty of them are, well, not like him, but similar. Plenty of them have done horrible things. Plenty of them would love to take advantage of him in his weakness.
Fuck, though, leaving Meropide to Etienne doesn’t sit right with him. Not because Etienne isn’t a perfectly good second but because Wriothesley is bad at giving up control. There are a million things he has to do, and letting someone else handle them… He knows his own capacity and knows how he measures himself and his work. Knows the standards to which he holds himself. Not that Etienne doesn’t hold himself to rigid standards, too. He wouldn’t be Wriothesley’s second if he didn’t. It’s just that this is a busy time, a dangerous time, and the Fortress needs Wriothesley to be at the helm.
He sinks deeper into his bed, pressing his hands to his face. His whole body aches, now. His covered in a thin layer of sweat even though he’s shivering, even though he’s freezing beneath his blankets, comforter, and quilt.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, rolling to his side and reaching for his Vision. He draws on the Cryo energy, flooding his body with it in an attempt to get his fever down.
Sigewinne had offered him some tablets when she came back to check on him, when she shooed him out of his own office after Etienne left. But Wriothesley abhors taking anything that leaves him disoriented, and those fever-killers always leave him dazed and incoherent.
Not that he’s super coherent right now, anyway. He’s a bleary mess, shaking in his bed, trembling like a fucking kid, his arms and legs aching as he curls on his side and drops his Vision back onto the nightstand.
He can’t relax. It’s the fault of the shaking, certainly, but he can’t just go boneless in bed. Can’t close his eyes. Can’t let his guard down. Shit, did he lock the door? He should check that. No. No, he locked the door. He always locks the door. It’s a ritual, it’s the closest he comes to religion.
Why can’t he relax?
Maybe working will help. Maybe if he distracts himself with work—because that was going so well for him earlier—he’ll feel better.
He throws his sheets off, oozes out of his bed, and staggers into his living room. Sweat collects in his spine. He should peel his socks off, but he’s so fucking cold. He should also get dressed, but he can’t quite remember why as he reaches for the deadbolts. Unlocks them. Turns the doorknob. Opens his door.
Neuvillette stands there, hand upraised to knock. “Your Grace,” he says, nonplussed.
“Oh,” Wriothesley says, somehow managing to slur that singular vowel sound. “Sigewinne’s a fucking traitor.”
Lips quirking in amusement, Neuvillette steps into Wriothesley’s apartment, shutting the door behind him. He’s dressed in his usual robes, impeccable as always.
“How soon did she write you?”
“I believe as soon as she left your office the first time. She mentioned going back to check on you but insisted I come to ensure you obeyed.”
Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he says, staggering away. His throat feels funny. Weird. Tight. Neuvillette doesn’t need to know that.
“You smell of sickness and exhaustion,” Neuvillette says.
“That’s bullshit,” Wriothesley replies. “That you can do that. It’s bullshit.” He sags against a nearby wall, and then Neuvillette is next to him, hands on his elbows, easing him away from the wall with that absurd draconic strength. “That, too,” he adds, muttering darkly.
Neuvillette makes a noncommittal little sound. “Come, beloved,” he says, urging Wriothesley to lean against him. “Let us return you to bed.”
With Neuvillette supporting him, they make their way back into Wriothesley’s bedroom.
“I’m fine,” Wriothesley insists on the short journey, ignoring how he’s panting and sweating. Ignoring the unrelenting ache in his legs. “I just—Maybe I need a little nap. That’s it. Just a quick nap.”
“Of course,” Neuvillette says, so understanding. He’s always so understanding. He helps Wriothesley into his bed, removing his socks in the process.
“I need those.” Wriothesley reaches for them. “Someone’s fucking with the atmospheric controls. It’s—”
“A fever,” Neuvillette says smoothly. “And if you wear these, you will only overheat yourself.” He urges Wriothesley to lay down, and Wriothesley does, but only because Neuvillette’s hands are so firmly insistent. And maybe because he did just admit that a nap might be nice. A short one. “Rest, beloved.” Neuvillette presses his hand to Wriothesley’s forehead as Wriothesley settles into the pillows. “I will be here to watch over you.”
Like he needed the permission, he finally relaxes into his bed. His eyes flutter shut. “Don’t let me sleep for more than an hour,” he says, slurring again. His throat is scratchy, his words rough.
“Rest, beloved,” Neuvillette says, because Neuvillette isn’t a liar, but Wriothesley doesn’t have the strength to call him out.
He exhales—and he’s out.
There’s someone in his apartment. They’re knocking around in his kitchen, making a tremendous amount of noise, which is the only reason he doesn’t throw himself out of his bed to, you know, do something violent.
Well. That’s not true. That’s not the only reason. There are two other reasons: first, he’s still shaking and miserable; second, he remembers that Neuvillette tucked him into bed. Oh, and a third: there’s a delicious smell filling his apartment.
Groaning, he hauls himself upright. Even that takes so much effort that he’s shaking from it. He staggers to the door, opening it to reveal his tiny living room and kitchen, where Neuvillette, stripped down to his shirt, hovers over a pot.
“What… what’re you…?” Wriothesley groans. His throat aches fiercely, and his words come out scratchy and rough.
“Making you a soup,” Neuvillette replies, turning away from the stove, concern etched into his expression. Makes him look cute, that concern. Cuter than usual. Neuvillette is… is so… His brows are drawing even tighter together, and he takes Wriothesley by the elbows, guiding him to the kitchen’s short bar. Eases him onto a barstool. “Sit, beloved.”
Wriothesley shivers. Touches the granite countertop. Shivers more. “I can help,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He wants to help. Hates feeling useless. But he’s also visibly shaking, and every muscle in his body is screaming in protest over being upright. He presses his face into his hands and groans.
Neuvillette touches his back. “Allow me,” he says, too gentle. Too kind.
With a frustrated sound, Wriothesley drops his hands. “No, I’m—I’m okay. The nap helped.” He sounds like shit, like sandpaper over wood, raspy and miserable. He feels miserable, but he’s not about to admit that. “I should get back to work.”
“It is seven at night,” Neuvillette says.
Wriothesley startles. “I said an hour.”
“You needed rest.”
“I need to take care of—” He breaks off, coughing, his words sticking in his throat. Sovereigns, he doesn’t just sound like shit. He feels like shit, too. Like he got hit by some giant mek without any defense. “I have shit to do,” he says, lamely.
“It can wait,” Neuvillette says, going back to the pot. He stirs it once, twice, and then goes through Wriothesley’s cabinets for a bowl and a spoon. With these in hand, he ladles soup into the bowl and passes it to Wriothesley, who tries to hide his disdain, but… “You do not like soup?”
Wriothesley sighs and picks up the spoon. “’s not that,” he mutters, blowing across his spoonful of soup to cool it. The broth is vaguely brown, and it smells meaty but not rich. Neuvillette is a shit cook, but this smells edible. He brings the soup to his lips and chances a sip of it.
It’s not burned. It’s not rancid. The balance of flavors is better than he expected, but he’s back on the streets, a Melusine leaning over him, offering him a takeaway box full of steaming soup.
“Reminds me of… before,” he says vaguely.
Neuvillette turns off the burner and begins ladling the soup into a storage bowl. “I did not mean to bring up unpleasant memories.”
Wriothesley stares at the soup. “It’s…” It’s not fine, but he doesn’t really know what it is.
“Would you prefer something else?” Neuvillette asks.
He doesn’t have much of an appetite at all, but this is better than nothing. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
Neuvillette places the remains of the soup into the Cryobox and faces Wriothesley with a baffled look. “Do you think I dislike helping you, Wriothesley?”
Wriothesley grimaces. “You…” His throat is so raw that he chokes down more soup to wet it. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“Help you?” Neuvillette asks, bewildered.
“Yeah.” He pushes the little chunks of chicken around in his soup. Forcing a smile, he looks up at Neuvillette. “I’m fine, really, sweetness. You don’t have to stick around.”
Bewilderment gives way to something… something almost angry. Wriothesley, having never seen Neuvillette angry with him before, leans back, surprised.
“Sweetness,” he tries again.
“You have a high fever,” Neuvillette says, coming around the counter. “You are shaking. Your voice is going, so your throat must be troubling you, and you can barely walk. You are not fine, Wriothesley.”
Another grimace. “No, really, I’m—” He breaks off, a cough wracking him until he thinks he’s going to throw up everything he’s just eaten. When the coughing subsides, Neuvillette is next to him, a hand on his back. Instead of being comforted, Wriothesley is annoyed. “I don’t need looking after,” he rasps. “I’m not a child. I’m not so pathetic that I can’t deal with this on my own. I’ll be fine in the morning, anyway. You’re wasting your time,” he snaps, each word a blade sliding down his throat. He shrugs Neuvillette’s hand off his back, shoving himself up.
The world spins around him, and he staggers directly into Neuvillette’s arms.
Now, he’s not just annoyed, he’s pissed. This is the last way he wants Neuvillette to see him, the last way he wants anyone to see him, the last way he wants to be. He’s… He’s pathetic and he’s weak and he’s afraid. Oh, Sovereigns, he’s so afraid. Despite his words, he’s a child again, crouched at the end of a darkened alley strewn with refuse. He’s shaking and dirty, desperate and hungry, small and vulnerable and afraid, and while he knows he can trust Neuvillette, he’s slept with one eye open for so long that he’s terrified.
People turn away from weak men.
“You are not a child,” Neuvillette says, steadying Wriothesley. He holds Wriothesley’s upper arms and steps back, keeping Wriothesley stable but not holding him. Good. If Neuvillette were to hold him right now, were to baby him, something in Wriothesley might break. “You are not pathetic because you are sick. But, Wriothesley, there is nothing wrong with relying on me for additional help while you recover.”
Wriothesley looks everywhere but at Neuvillette. “You have more important things to do.”
“There is nothing more important to me than taking care of my beloved,” Neuvillette says. He reaches for Wriothesley’s face, cupping his jaw, and Wriothesley stares at the floor between their feet. Neuvillette has removed his shoes, is just in his socks, and Wriothesley’s feet are bare, and it’s strangely intimate to see Neuvillette like this even though he’s seen Neuvillette naked so many times by now. “I would like to support you. Care for you.”
Swallowing hard, Wriothesley raises his eyes. Meet’s Neuvillette’s tender gaze. “You’ll… think less of me,” he rasps.
“For succumbing to an influenza?” Neuvillette laughs, but it isn’t unkind. “Beloved, don’t be daft.”
Wriothesley sputters. Or tries to. His throat is too raw for it, and he ends up coughing, instead. He sags forward, dropping his head against Neuvillette’s shoulder, and Neuvillette’s arms come around him. And he realizes that, for the first time in years, in decades, that he need not suffer alone. He doesn’t need to watch his back. He has Neuvillette here. Neuvillette, who will stay with him while he is weak and pathetic, who will ensure that no one takes advantage of him like this. Beyond Neuvillette, he has Sigewinne and Etienne to look after the Fortress; the two of them will surely tell him if something goes so terribly wrong they can’t handle it themselves. Should the worst come to pass, too, he has Neuvillette already here.
Maybe he is being daft.
“You’ve never succumbed to an influenza,” he manages, parroting Neuvillette’s words.
“No, but I am not human,” Neuvillette replies. “Which makes me uniquely suited to be your… helper. Over these next few days. I cannot catch whatever you have. But I can keep you company and make meals for you.”
“I don’t want to take you away from your work.”
Neuvillette noses into Wriothesley’s temple, nuzzling through his hair. “In recent months, I have come to realize that personal relationships provide, perhaps, more value and meaning to my life than my work.”
A laugh catches in Wriothesley’s throat, painfully. He chokes on it, but grins as he lifts his head. “Perhaps?”
Neuvillette’s smile is soft. “Almost certainly.”
“Almost?”
Neuvillette’s smile turns just a little petulant. “Beloved.”
Wriothesley presses his sweaty, sticky forehead against Neuvillette’s. “I’m going to be the world’s biggest baby,” he admits. “About this. About being sick.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Neuvillette replies.
“Why?”
“Because I want to be a safe harbor for you, beloved,” Neuvillette replies, ardent and so very genuine. Painfully genuine. Almost embarrassingly genuine. “I want you to be safe with me, to be comfortable and vulnerable with me. To be able to rest with me.”
Wriothesley clutches at Neuvillette’s elbows, clinging to him as he struggles to stay upright. “Sweetness,” he says, because he has to say something and he doesn’t have anything better.
Neuvillette leans forward and presses a soft, tender kiss to Wriothesley’s mouth. It is chaste. Sweet. Soothing instead of arousing—not that Wriothesley has it in him to get turned on right now. He feels too much like shit for that. “Taking care of you would be a gift. Would you give this to me?”
All but melting into Neuvillette’s body, Wriothesley nods. “Yeah,” he says, the tension finally evaporating from him. “I… might be a dick about it again. But, yeah.”
“It would be my pleasure to tolerate you when you’re being disagreeable,” Neuvillette says. “Now, why don’t you finish your soup and then we can tuck ourselves into your bed. Perhaps I will read to you.”
“That… that’d be nice, sweetness.”
Wriothesley folds himself back onto the barstool and manages to make it halfway through his soup before giving up. Neuvillette helps him back to bed and tucks him in before stripping off his spats and his pants and joining him. Neuvillette reads from Wriothesley’s newest book on Remuria—a deep dive into Remus’ final days and the fall of the ancient empire—until Wriothesley, exhausted, drifts into deep and untroubled slumber.
Over the next three days, Neuvillette is quietly, persistently present. He heats up the soup for Wriothesley to eat, holds him while he sleeps, reads to him while he’s awake. He tolerates Wriothesley’s frustration at being cooped up in his tiny apartment and soothes him when he gets frustrated about work. He’s perfect, really, and Wriothesley…
“I don’t deserve you,” he says late on the third day. His fever has waned, and his muscles no longer ache. His voice remains raspy, but his throat no longer feels like it’s on fire.
Neuvillette looks up from the history he’s been reading to Wriothesley, marking his page with a small, warm smile. “Beloved,” he says, bemused.
“I don’t,” Wriothesley insists. “I was a dick the first day and a baby the rest.”
“You mostly slept,” Neuvillette says mildly, closing the book and setting it aside. He slips down the bed to lay on his side, facing Wriothesley. He’s deliciously rumpled. Almost human, in a way. He looks more real in this moment than he ever has.
Wriothesley reaches out, running his fingers through the hair at Neuvillette’s temple. “Yeah, but I know I was unbearable when I was awake.”
Neuvillette’s face fixes in a polite expression.
Laughing, Wriothesley scoots closer to him. Neuvillette closes the remaining gap, pressing their bodies together. It’s electric, yeah; touching Neuvillette always is. Always makes Wriothesley want. But he’s still too tired and exhausted for sex, even if he buzzes with faint arousal. Having Neuvillette in his arms, in his bed, tends to do that to him—apparently even when he’s on the upswing from some awful flu.
“I know, I know,” Wriothesley says. “See, that’s what I mean. I was a monster.”
“You were sick,” Neuvillette says delicately.
Wriothesley closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. His fingers tangle in Neuvillette’s long hair, playing with the strands at the base of his skull. “Neuvillette, I…” He exhales heavily. “I know I’m not… I’m not always the greatest at saying how I feel. I’m difficult and closed off a lot of the times, and I know I was worse these past few days. But you stuck with me. You’re still here, and…” His eyes burn with tears that he refuses to shed. Fuck, but he’s not that pathetic. “And that means the world to me.”
“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette begins.
“No, don’t. Don’t say anything.” He doesn’t think he can bear anything Neuvillette might say right now. “Just… People don’t stick with me, you know? And half the time, that’s because I don’t let them. I know I shoved pretty hard on day one, and I did my best to be a shit the rest of the time, too. But you didn’t go.”
He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the tears. But Neuvillette catches them—probably smells the salt—and buffs his thumb against the corner of Wriothesley’s eye. “Beloved,” he says.
“You didn’t go,” Wriothesley says again. “You stuck with me, even when I was unbearable. Especially when I was unbearable. I know we’ve been… figuring things out. Trying to make sense of everything, right?” He gives a hollow little laugh. “Personal relationships and all.”
Alarm flits across Neuvillette’s face.
Wriothesley presses his fingers to Neuvillette’s lips. “It’s alright if you don’t know where I stand with you.”
Neuvillette’s eyes grow wide. His brows dip. Concern. A bit of fear. Fuck, Wriothesley’s fucking this up.
He bumbles on. “But I know where you stand with me, and I want you to know. I want you to know, especially after these last few days, that you—” He laughs again. Rubs his free hand over his face. “Shit, I didn’t mean to make a whole damn speech.”
Neuvillette just looks confused, now. Which, you know, that’s better than fearful.
“I’m just… I’m trying to say that I love you, Neuvillette, and it’s fine if you don’t want to say it back, I just wanted you to—”
Neuvillette pushes Wriothesley’s fingers away from his lips and leans forward, pressing their mouths together. His kiss is soft and sweet and something more, something richer and almost divine. He presses one of his hands to Wriothesley’s chest, directly over his thudding heart, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Beloved,” he says. “Do you not already know that I love you with every breath in my lungs? Even when you’re unbearable?”
A strange lightness fills Wriothesley, and for a moment, he’s not sick. He’s buoyed by something ecstatic and wonderful, something warm and gentle and—and, fuck. Love should be warm, shouldn’t it?
“I do now,” he says, grinning like a godsdamn fool. He pulls Neuvillette into his arms, cradling him closer. “I guess I need to get sick more often.”
Against his chest, Neuvillette goes just a little tense. “And why is that?”
“I dunno, this time ended with love confessions. Maybe next time, you’ll ask me to marry you or something.”
Neuvillette draws back, a befuddled look on his face. “Wriothesley.”
“Neuvillette?”
“We are mates.”
“Yeah.” Wriothesley frowns. “You’ve said that. But that’s just… Oh. Oh, this is where you tell me that means we’re dragon married.”
Neuvillette laughs, full-bodied and sweet, beautiful in his humor. And Wriothesley thinks that, maybe, getting sick isn’t so bad after all, if it ends up with him finding out he’s been married to Neuvillette for months.