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“Lemme see,” says Wriothesley, tugging at Neuvillette’s hand.
They’re lounging in Neuvillette’s bed after dinner, freshly washed, dressed down, and ready to tuck in. There is nothing sordid about the way that Wriothesley pulls Neuvillette’s hand close. Nothing sensual about how he drags his thumb over the arch of Neuvillette’s knuckles, tracing their dips and curves. Intimate, yes, but the heat that curls through Wriothesley’s being is not arousal. No, it’s something thicker, warmer, affectionate—
“What are you doing?” asks Neuvillette. He lies on his back, his hair tied back into a messy braid that fights the pillow.
“Nothing,” replies Wriothesley as he presses their palms together. His hand is wider and his fingers are shorter, thicker when compared to Neuvillette’s elegant digits. Long and lithe. Dexterous. They lack the callouses that mar the tips of Wriothesley’s fingers, smooth to the touch. Then there are the scales that dot his wrist bone, usually hidden by the long sleeves of his shirt.
“Nothing,” repeats Neuvillette. He turns to look at Wriothesley, an eyebrow drawn up in question. “Nothing?”
Wriothesley laughs, pulling his thumb across one of the lines in Neuvillette’s palm. “Genuinely, nothing. Just looking. Touching. Comparing.”
“Why are we comparing…?” Neuvillette’s question is punctuated not with worry but curiosity. There are so many mortal conventions that he’s unaccustomed to, and casual, domestic intimacy is something that he’s still learning. His own instincts as both an alpha and a dragon are far stronger, more rooted in the desire to possess Wriothesley entirely, which makes these softer, quieter moments mean all the more.
“No reason.” Wriothesley presses his thumb into the divot of Neuvillette’s palm, worrying at the muscle there. “For the fun of it. You know, there’s a saying that this line here—” He drags his thumb over that spot again. “—is the lifeline. Shows age, the future, and what to expect. It’s definitely longer than mine, no?”
Wriothesley lifts his own hand to show Neuvillette that that same line is indeed shorter in comparison, angling off in a different direction.
“I do think,” starts Neuvillette dryly, “that such a thing is merely the wiles of genetics and biology, not some supernatural standard deemed by the powers that be.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that. “You’re no fun,” teases Wriothesley.
“What is fun about predetermination? Wouldn’t such a thing imply that we are so unsuited towards each other?”
Oh. Oh. Well. True enough. Alphas don’t typically mix well, and even with Neuvillette’s talk of how he’s different, even with Wriothesley’s desire being firmly rooted in the same secondary gender, they still…waffle about. Sometimes. Right now, his chest is warm, pleased, but any other time, Wriothesley’s alpha might view Neuvillette as a threat. Might feel on edge, prone to snapping, pulled taut until nearly snapping.
It’s a delicate balance.
“Well,” says Wriothesley, “when you put it like that, no, I don’t much like the idea of—what’d you call it? Predetermination?”
Neuvillette hums softly. “So, our hands…why are we comparing them?” he asks again, turning the conversion back to something lighter, more casual.
“I love our differences, you know. Your hands are so slender compared to mine but no less powerful.” Wriothesley tugs Neuvillette’s hand to his face. He scents him, dragging his nose across the sharp jut of his wrist bone, over those knuckles so perfectly structured.
He feels so settled. There’s a soft little pull in his chest, just the slightest, barest hint of his alpha rousing, but mostly, almost entirely, Wriothesley feels at ease. Neuvillette smells like the damp petrichor of the beach air. Tastes like the salt water of the ocean, and gods, Wriothesley wants to drown in it all. It’s suffocating, and he’s happy to lose his breath if it means being so close, if it means soaking all of this up.
Slotting their hands together feels natural. Wriothesley’s fingers sink into the spaces between Neuvillette’s. He scents him again, dragging his nose across Neuvillette’s hand. Kisses each and every knuckle, slowly, sweetly—and that’s all this is. There is no heady undertone to his touch, no fires stoked in his belly or rising arousal; just unfettered affection and a desire to hold Neuvillette close.
Neuvillette sits up, the sheets falling around him in a silken shower. That braid of his is mussed, locks of hair sticking out in parts of the plait. “Wriothesley,” he murmurs, reaching out to lay his free hand against Wriothesley’s chest. He fiddles with the open collar of Wriothesley’s shirt there, claws pulling over exposed skin. Then up, up, tracing the column of Wriothesley’s throat and the scars there until his knuckles brush against his scent gland. “Beloved of mine.”
They linger. Wriothesley swallows, his throat bobbing as he leans into the touch. That gland aches. One day, he thinks. One day, maybe this won’t just be a dream, a fleeting thought; maybe one day they’ll bear each other's marks, and Wriothesley will be called his, he’ll be Neuvillette's, which will mean something beyond just smelling like each other.
Wriothesley scents him again, holding Neuvillette’s hand close to his mouth. He bites at the soft skin, nips at those soft scales there. Kisses them next with a lingering, longing touch.
Neuvillette sighs against him, pressing closer. Hanging over Wriothesley, he brushes back his bangs and just looks at him, soaking up the attention so easily given. It’s easy to imagine it, evenings like this. Years, decades of evenings like this, of him and Neuvillette winding down in bed, steeping in each other.
His alpha churrs, pleased at the thought. “Sweetheart,” he says, keeping their fingers linked, “nothing more. Just this.”
The skin around Neuvillette’s eyes is creased, soft little crow’s feet framing his gaze. He cups Wriothesley’s face and tips close, pressing a sweet kiss against his lips. “Alright,” he says, his breath warm. “Nothing more. Just this.”
Wriothesley laughs, surging up to kiss Neuvillette again, and true to the request, it’s just that. A long evening of lying together deep into the night; of telling stories and tracing scars; of steeping in each other’s scent until they're indistinguishable.
Just this. Wriothesley laughs alongside Neuvillette, their legs tangling, knees knocked together, hands ghosting hips, waists, skittering across ribs. It’s easy to think that this is perfection, that this is real. Just this, Neuvillette against him, drinking his taste, thumbing over that sensitive gland.
He loves this man, Wriothesley thinks. And with Neuvillette petting his hair, chuckling against his mouth, indulging in those sweet, casual intimacies that mates do, it’s easy to think that Neuvillette loves him too.