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When Wriothesley steps into Neuvillette’s townhome, the lights are off.
That’s a red flag. Neuvillette might not have concerns about the cost of his Electro bill, but he’s energy conscious all the same. One time he described, in great detail, just how the Arkhe reactors work, and as neat as it sounded, it definitely went over Wriothesley’s head.
“Navia was right,” he murmurs, tossing his keys into the little bowl on the entry table.
It’s the first time he’s used his key; Neuvillette gifted it to him a while back, but they always come home together, or Neuvillette is already here. The metal’s been burning a hole into Wriothesley’s pocket, but he didn’t think that his first time slipping it into the lock would be out of worry.
Navia’s texts linger in his mind as he tugs off his coat.
[LesBAEin2] >> Hey, the boss called in sick.
[LesBAEin2] >> He never does that. Check on him, please?
[LesBAEin2] >> I’d do it, but I think he’d appreciate you more, considering the sway you have over him with your dick and all.
Wriothesley doesn’t have sway over Neuvillette, least of all with his dick, but he’d shot her a return text, a promise to update.
And now he’s here, kicking off his shoes and setting them next to Neuvillette’s expensive, Mondstadtan loafers. Best be on good behavior. There’s a small chance that Neuvillette was just too tired to work, and Wriothesley isn’t willing to risk his stern words.
(Actually, it’s a larger chance; Navia has told Wriothesley before that Neuvillette is never sick. Sometimes he’s tired enough to play hooking, though, so Wriothesley brought with him both soup, and a stack of case files, just to cover all bases.)
It’s a quick shot to the bedroom—but Wriothesley stills once in the hall. The door is closed. Neuvillette sleeps with it open because he gets too hot under the covers, and claims that it keeps the air in the room fresh. Wriothesley raps his knuckles against the door, just out of politeness, before turning the handle and cracking it a few inches.
“Sweetheart?”
It’s dark in here too, the lamp cut off, and the curtains drawn. The air smells sour. Neuvillette is in bed, covers pulled to his chin.
Oh. Oh, he’s sick. Sick sick. Actually sick. Wriothesley can tell by the way the blankets are mussed, and the stagnant quality of the room. Navia was right to be concerned.
Wriothesley steps in fully and sets the folios in his hand on the dresser. The floor is cold, even through his socks. “Neuvillette,” he says once at the bed, leaning over for a better look. A gentle nudge against Neuvillette’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, you have to give me a sign of life, or something. Don’t make me call one of the medical aquabuses.”
Neuvillette is, as it turns out, mildly conscious. He cracks open an eye and groans. “There’s no… I’m not dying.”
Maybe not, but fuck, he sure sounds like it. His voice is cracked, dry and raspy. Neuvillette rubs his face tiredly, the sheets shifting around him.
“Well, that’s good. Hang on, let me have a feel, okay?”
Any other time, Neuvillette would snort at the double entendre, but this time he just whines softly when Wriothesley presses his knuckles against his damp brow. Sweaty. Stale. Warm, very, very warm.
“You have a fever,” he sighs, leaning back.
“Obviously,” comes Neuvillette’s tired, but tart reply.
So, Neuvillette is the crabby sort when sick. For some reason, that is unsurprising. Wriothesley is a whiny baby when he’s feeling bad, but doesn’t mind depending on others. He might kick and scream, and hates the thought of even taking a damn painkiller, but he knows when to accept his losses.
Neuvillette is independent, and dislikes babying. He’d rather tough out sickness alone than in the care of someone else.
Unluckily for him, Wriothesley is a giver, and he’s going to give, whether Neuvillette wants him to or not.
“I’m going to get you some water.”
“Wriothesley.”
“I also brought some soup, but we can heat that up later. How do you feel about a bath?”
“Wriothesley.”
“So it’s a yes to the bath? Good.”
It is not a yes to the bath. Neuvillette’s grip on the blanket turns firm when Wriothesley tugs at it. “You’ve seen me,” he mutters. “I am not dying. Please leave me be. I just want to sleep.”
“I know that, sweetheart, but that isn’t how this works.”
Neuvillette lets out a pained, aching sound. “How what works?”
“Having a boyfriend. A very stubborn one, at that. I’m going to take care of you, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
“But—”
“Are you deaf, as well as sick? No rebuttals, Neuvillette. This isn’t a courthouse.”
Neuvillette glares at him—honest to the Archons glares at him—but doesn’t put forth more fight. He just sighs, rubs at his face again, and melts against his pillow. “I am sorry. I am unused to…” The words hang there, but Wriothesley catches them nonetheless.
“I know. I get it. It’s hard being vulnerable.”
“I’m not—Wriothesley, it is a cold.”
“A nasty one, too.” Wriothesley tugs at a lock of Neuvillette’s hair playfully. “Sedene’s out too, as is that junior of yours—Yanfei? It’s making its way through the Palais, according to Navia.”
“Ah. So she sent you.”
“She was worried.”
A soft snort. Neuvillette closes his eyes and sucks in a rattling breath. He sounds gross, but not completely infirm. Still. “I should call Sigewinne here, just to take a look.”
“Please don’t.”
“Sick people have no rights. Let me get that water and give her a call. Don’t look at me like that—she’ll be in and out, I promise. Then I’ll nurse you back to health.”
Neuvillette relaxes slightly at that idea. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy, but mostly alert. “My hero,” he says with dry humor.
Wriothesley can’t help it; he chuckles, and leans over to kiss Neuvillette’s sweaty brow. Then, he’s off to the kitchen for a glass of water, and to put that soup in the fridge. Neuvillette sick is… a thought. He pulls out his phone to shoot Navia her promised update.
[Wriothesley] >> i thought i was a big baby when i was sick
[Wriothesley] >> neuvillette is MEAN
[LesBAEin2] >> Thanks for taking one for the team!
[Wriothesley] >> you knew?? warn a man next time
[LesBAEin2] >> And ruin the fun? Consider this divine punishment for the years you didn’t keep in contact.
Wriothesley frowns at his phone, deciding that he’ll pick at her later because that’s her fault, not his. Right now, Neuvillette’s his concern, so he gets that glass of water, and roots around for a bottle of painkillers. Then, after spotting a small, microfiber towel, he wets that too in the sink tap water. Weapons in hand, he goes back to the bedroom, slipping in quietly. Neuvillette dozes, caught in the sickly sweet haze of discomfort. Poor thing. The bed sinks underneath Wriothesley’s weight as he sits on the edge.
Neuvillette stirs. Opens tired, bleary eyes. “Mhmn…?”
“Hey sweetheart. Water.”
Neuvillette, this time, at least doesn’t fight it. He sits up, leaning on an elbow, and drains the entire glass. He also misses the bedside table entirely when he goes to set the glass down, wincing as it falls to the ground. The rug catches it, thankfully. No damage done, minus the hit points Neuvillette’s pride has taken.
Which it has. It’s hard for Wriothesley not to laugh at the contrite, annoyed look on his face.
“You don’t need to be here,” Neuvillette murmurs, his voice more solid and less parched. “I’m not an invalid, Wriothesley. I’ve been sick before.”
“It isn’t about that.” Wriothesley reaches out, brushing back Neuvillette’s bangs. “Would it kill you to let me take care of you?”
“Yes.” Neuvillette’s breath rattles with the discomfort of chest congestion. “Or, I’m already dying.”
“What happened to all that talk about just being sick?”
Neuvillette grunts, noncommittally, and then moves to rollover, intent on drowning himself in the sheets.
“Wait, wait, I’ll stop teasing you. Let’s handle that fever, yeah?” Wriothesley shakes out some painkillers, which Neuvillette eyes warily. But he swallows them down. A good start. And he doesn’t fight off the damp towel that Wriothesley folds and presses to his forehead. “Better?”
Another grunt, but it’s softer than the last, which Wriothesley takes as a small victory.
Then, Wriothesley stands, moving around the foot of the bed to the other side. Neuvillette protests as he peels back the blanket and sheets. “Wriothesley, what are you— Wriothesley. You’ll get sick. You’ll—”
“You’ve already breathed all over me. I’ve been steeping in your… sick aura since I got here. I’m as good as ruined, so might as well snuggle.”
Neuvillette’s expression is wary. He refuses to press closer, to cross that wide expanse of the bed, even when Wriothesley settles onto his back, offering up a very nice spot to cuddle against.
“I have the plague,” he mutters. “You do not want this, Wriothesley. I feel terrible.”
“But it’d make you feel better, right?”
It would. Wriothesley’s knows it would, and it takes about two seconds for Neuvillette to give in and slide across those fancy silk sheets.
“This will be your fault,” he complains the moment his cheek nestles against Wriothesley’s chest. “When you get sick, you will only have yourself to blame.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“And I will not take care of you. You will suffer through this alone, wallowing in the consequences of your own actions.”
“Hmmn, yeah,” agrees Wriothesley automatically.
Neuvillette would never let him suffer. He’ll complain, and bother him that he did it to himself, but he’d nurse Wriothesley all the same, in return.
(Really, though, they’ll likely just be sick together, and then they’ll be Navia’s problem. There is an amusement in that idea. She’d hate it, and tease them relentlessly, but also find it stupidly romantic.)
Neuvillette’s breathing settles. He seems more comfortable, his clammy skin now warm against Wriothesley’s body. Wriothesley dips close as he brushes those sweaty bangs back from Neuvillette’s brow. “Better?”
“Annoyingly so.”
“Are you always like this when you’re sick?”
“I’m miserable, so I ensure that others are as well.”
Wriothesley chokes on a chuckle. “Okay,” he says, pressing a sweet kiss against his forehead. “Rest for a bit. You can commiserate more later when I force you into the bath.”
Neuvillette says nothing else, just lets loose another soft groan, that acerbic attitude of his crumbling with his exhaustion.
He’s definitely going to catch whatever this cold is. Wriothesley will not be leaving this bed unscathed, but, that’s a tomorrow problem, one that Sigewinne can fix with a quick phone call.