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It is a quiet night spent sitting on the couch beside a roaring fire. Wriothesley is close, one elbow on the armrest, a book in his hand. His other hand rests against Neuvillette’s thigh, thumb pulling over the fabric of his trousers over and over, the repetitive beat anchoring him to the spot.
Neuvillette has taken the night off. He has been doing that a lot as of late, to the point where Sedene has already bundled up paperwork for him to take him because she knows that he, on occasion, has taken late mornings too. A crack in his routine. Five hundred years of a perfectly planned schedule set aside because he cannot be without his mate for even a full day without—
“I can hear your mind turning,” says Wriothesley. These are not mean words; they are dipped in humor again, and when Neuvillette meets his face, Wriothesley has forgone the attention of his book, and watches him back with a soft, fond expression that makes Neuvillette’s heart beat twice as fast.
Oh, this warmth, this blessed heat that curls in his gut, that makes Neuvillette greedy. His affection is all-consuming. His love is—
It scares him, this love. Neuvillette has never felt so mortal, so fragile. He’s moored to Wriothesley, tethered by a long, thick red rope of fate, and that scares him. This need, this desire doesn’t just flood his veins, it has become a reason to wake in the morning. To sleep and laze into the night. Soft touches, laughter against his mouth, and fluttering eyelashes as they kiss; a golden ring glinting on Wriothesley's finger; a soft whisper of Neuvillette’s given name—these are the unholy trinity that speak death for a Sovereign.
For when Wrothesley dies, when his mate ceases to be, what then will come of Neuvillette?
“I am merely thinking,” replies Neuvillette, when he remembers that Wriothesley has posited an unasked question.
“A dangerous habit.”
Ah. Another one of Wriothesley's quiet teasings, a turn of phrase dripping with mirth. It’s a gentle pull, though, a quiet request to peek into just what it is that hides in Neuvillette’s mind.
The room is comfortable. The fire before them creaks and crackles, painting the walls of their home a mellow orange, quieting Neuvillette’s roaring thoughts. A place of their own. Their furniture, their space to carve into deeply, to meld their beings, and build a life together.
These instincts have never been so loud. He has never cared much or been so restless when thinking of what is to come. Wriothesley moors him, but Neuvillette wonders just how much it will take for that thread to unravel, for that red string that ties them together to begin to fray at the edges.
“Sweetheart,” says Wriothesley, cutting through Neuvillette’s thoughts again. That hand on Neuvillette’s thigh lifts, and Wriothesley drags his thumb across the crease furrowed deeply into Neuvillette’s forehead. “Too much of that, and you’ll start to wrinkle.”
The moment eases. Neuvillette can’t stop the quiet laughter that flits from his lips. This, he thinks, is one of Wriothesley's greatest skills—his ability to soften a tense moment by saying almost nothing. Still, there is merit in telling the truth, in being honest.
And Neuvillette owes his mate a glimpse into his being.
“Love is different for me, Wriothesley. I do not just care for you, you are my reason for the mornings and evenings. And when you…” He pauses, collecting his words into a neat little parcel. “You will not always be here. And that scares me.”
Wriothesley's mouth falls open. He licks his lips, thinking, and then replies, “The laws of physics can be refined. Who’s to say that I won’t outlive you?”
What an absurd thing to say, but it works. The moment stretches and softens again, and Neuvillette is left feeling better than before.
Wriothesley closes his book and sets it aside. Leans over to take hold of Neuvillette’s face, nuzzling it, scenting it in the way that he’s been taut, and oh, that’s better. “Those are thoughts for another day,” says Wriothesley then. “Preferably never, if I have my way.”
Then, a kiss, a butterfly touch that’s a wonderful distraction. Neuvillette sinks into it; sinks and sinks, and all is well.