Work Text:
For a change, Valer is home.
Mehen's hair has grown longer in the time they've been apart, but he still uses the same hair ribbon. An old thing, gifted 'because it matches your eyes'.
Well used and well maintained, in Mehen's hands.
Remarkably consistent, his honey. He chortles a little to himself.
"Hm?" the man in question perks up from his work.
Letting the laugh color his tone, "I didn't expect this role reversal, or such a long visit from you," Valer allows himself to admit, brushing his hair back. The late afternoon had dipped into sundown.
Mehen glances at him and fiddles with the sheaf in his hand, fanning them out like a deck of cards. "It certainly feels odd, seeing you in recovery like this," he softly responds, betraying his unease. Then he bites: "My workload is outrageous thanks to a certain someone, but I'm well practiced at handling affairs next to a sickbed, by now."
They're thinking of the same things: Arelyn's condition ("The Archmage stabilized her and she's in the estate—resting," Mehen had assured earlier; no more regressions he soothes to himself, countering the allure of relinquishing another secret to his anchor) and when Mehen was sick. He had worried so much, back then, watching a remainder of his humanity in fever. Teetering the edge of delirium in different ways, the two of them. Little to do other than nurse and keep company while his counterpart fought his battles.
It's maddening, when either of them are in poor health. The reciprocation, now, isn't lost on him.
"Your bedside manner could be sweeter," Valer pokes the bear and promptly gets a faceful of papers for it.
View obscured, he hears Mehen complain, "…..I can't even refute that. It was something I worried a lot about, with Arelyn."
His partner, drawing back his weapon of choice, stares at him for a beat.
...
Ah. He's catching on.
Suffocating in smoke and mirrors, and Valer been seen through where it matters anyways. What a grace it is to be known.
Mehen's eyes narrow critically, annoyed. "Insufferable. Aren't you usually more shameless?"
"I'm also bedridden and invalid," Valer bats his lashes as charmingly doe-eyed as he can. He gets smacked upside the head by Mehen's stack of sheets again for his trouble, but recovers fast enough to brighten at the capping of a fountain pen that follows soon after.
The bed sinks as Mehen settles next to him, having placed his work where he was sitting before. His partner reaches for his hand. The angle is awkward.
Verdant eyes reveal their embarrassment.
Violet eyes gladly take in the lively expression.
"—Stop that. It's been a while." Oops. Too enthusiastically for his dignity, it seems.
Clumsily: Mehen tries again, looping through the space between the other's arm and side, intertwining their fingers. ('Tying the knot' if you will—he resists blurting.)
"..What an understatement," Valer sighs out when they're finally folded together, temple against temple.
Tension seeps out of his posture, inordinately pleased he's successfully goaded his other half into initiating contact. Valer instantly buries his face into the crook of his partner's neck, breathing slow and deep, relishing in the wood scent and pulse.
"…..You and Arel are so similar," Mehen huffs, affectionately stroking the back of his nape.
Few places are more comfortable than next to Valer—despite all the accumulated ire when he's away, the confusion when he can't read his lord, the damn workload.....
...
He retracts that claim. It's an inaccurate way to put it. But it is undeniable his liege is the first and most persisting warmth Mehen knows.
The lamp gently illuminates Valer. He looks beautiful when content. The boy who gave Mehen countless blessings and a lifetime of stress gazes gently up at him, sluggishly blinking. Amethyst curved with an undeniable fondness.
..This guy's face is really good. Mehen placidly looks away and resolves for the umpteenth time to never say this sentiment aloud because Valer will gladly dramaticize it and he'll pick up on the sappiness of what Mehen is actually pointing out.
Something about him is less burdened. Glimmers of the sun-like smile he preserved in his mind's eye, the one he yearns to see again and again, is plenty—though not penance. He's still mad. But his upset is easily put aside, momentarily, in the fragmented presence of a long-awaited happiness. Heart heavy with a deep-seated adoration (soured at all but the core), he keeps his expression carefully blank. Staring a little longer, etching the moment for safekeeping.
…He should take off his overcoat, Valer is unaffected but it's digging into both of them. Upon pulling away to do so, Valer shoots him the most pitiful look. He ignores it. Shucking off the layer and lazily folding it onto the stack, Valer all but pulls him back into the mattress as soon as he tilts to return. He has to blindly take off his shoes, midway.
Mehen's head ends up somewhere on the other's bicep; the side of Valer's face presses into where his spine starts, arm slung over his middle. With a tinge of whining while snuggling closer, "Sleep here? Let's stay like this…"
He can't tell if it's teasing anymore or just childish sincerity. Can't look at his face to garner a guess either, with it hidden behind him. Perhaps that's intentional.
"Absolutely not," is his merciless answer all the same, "you're still recovering, and if we stay like this, you're going to cut off the circulation in your arm," he reasons like it'll do anything, petting the arm trapping him.
He feels Valer shrug and practically hears the obstinate grin, "Worth it. Though it's not like you weigh much, are you sure?" His liege only giggles when he spots Mehen shaking his fist out the corner of his eye, smushing the sound into his back.
To Valer's disappointment, Mehen keeps true to his word, extricating himself not long after. Retrieving his shoes, taking back his seat, and sliding the outer garment he took off earlier back on, he methodically puts himself together—work balanced on his leg, ready to depart.
His lord pouts while watching, but he refuses to rest for the night here. Nonetheless… he stretches out his right hand to poke at Valer's face, eventually brushing a thumb over his liege's cheek.
The man melts into the smidgens of contact. Mehen's resolve similarly deflates. He needs to leave before his heart softens too much.
Retracting the touch, letting Valer's head lodge into the pillow, he collects what he brought, and slips out the room.
"Good night, darling," a saccharine bade startles him into slamming the door shut reflexively.
...
Mehen opens it a sliver, peeking through the crack. "Fuck off. Good night."
The faint impression of Valer laughing, pleased, follows his fluster out into the hall.