Wriothesley is playing music when Neuvillette slips into his office.

It is too late—late enough that Wriothesley should have been dressing down for bed hours ago. Late enough that Neuvillette finished his own paperwork, and then read half of a novel. Long enough that the candle on the bedside table burned entirely out.

Neuvillette leans against the door frame and watches Wriothesley pull at his face, dragging a hand down the length of it. A sigh. The press of his fingers against the arch of his cheekbones, his tired eyes. Next, they pull through his hair, ruffling the silvered strands. The vinyl on the turntable must have been flipped recently. Wriothesley will use it as an excuse to move around, to mill about as he thinks. Neuvillette has seen it time and time again.

He sweeps into the room quietly. "Beloved—"

"Shit," curses Wriothesley, jumping at the sound of his voice. "Sorry, I just... Warn a man, won't you? Remember what Sigewinne said at my last physical?"

Unfortunately. Neuvillette takes this with humor, though, and says, "Something about a risk of heart attack."

Wriothesley groans, slacking in his chair. "Don't remind me. If she writes me another script for one of her low-cholesterol milkshakes—"

"Aren't those better than the osteoarthritis ones?" Wriothesley looks green at the thought of them.

Neuvillette laughs, reaching out to cup his cheek. "You have a smudge of something here."

"I don't."

"Machine oil? Ink? Perhaps you've been working too much—"

"Sweetheart." Oh, he sounds utterly defeated.

Neuvillette drops his hand to pull at Wriothesley's wrist. "Come here."

Wriothesley stands at his request, sighing softly. "What're you still doing up?" he asks.

"Worrying about you." Minorly. Neuvillette knows that Wriothesley is fine, that it's just work stress, but his instincts rage to take care of his mate nonetheless. "It's late. The sheets are cold."

"Needy, are you?" Wriothesley's mouth curls into a sinful smirk and steps closer, tugging Neuvillette close by the hips.

Here is where Neuvillette sees the weariness that time has etched into Wriothesley's form. More scars, more wrinkles, soft little laugh lines around his mouth, and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His hair is silvered now, with only specks of black. His bulk is still there, and he's still fit, but he's softened around the edges, his waist giving slightly when Neuvillette's fingers slip just underneath the hem of his shirt.

"Always," he purrs, pressing close until their mouths are close together, and all that he smells is Wriothesley's soap, tea, and the whiskey he's sipped from recently.

"Has anyone told you that your hands are cold? And a little damp."

"Yes. And, as I recall, he was a man with debatable taste in music."

Wriothesley snorts, offended. "Clorinde gave us this record."

"She gave you this record."

"And you love it all the same."

Neuvillette does, which is why he smiles so fondly. Memories are fleeting. The things given to them by friends and companions are beloved.

Wriothesley hums softly, repositioning Neuvillette's hand against his shoulder. He takes the other and asks, "Dance with me?"

There is no need to ask. Neuvillette will always dance with his mate when given the opportunity. These moments are rare nowadays. They have grown older but no less wiser. For every step forward, Fontaine is ahead two more. Hard to keep up, hard to understand what the youth are up to, what the public likes, and the ever-changing technology.

Wriothesley should retire. He won't, but he should because Meropide is twice as busy now as way back when, which is why he's here, in his office, burning the midnight oil.

"I came here to coax you to bed," says Neuvillette with a soft chuckle.

"Indulge me then. Perhaps I'll tire enough to come lay down."

An amenable thought. Neuvillette nods and lets himself be whisked away to the gentle thrum of the music. Something from the Jazz Age decades ago. Wriothesley hums along it softly, just a smidge flat. They don't really dance—Neuvillette has many years of practice but Wriothesley has two left feet, the title of Duke be damned. They just kind of rock around in circles, holding each other.

But he craves this, loves this. He churrs softly, the inhuman sound lost against Wriothesley's neck as he rests his face against it. Neuvillette kisses the warm skin there, nuzzling at it—

"Are you scenting me?"

Neuvillette stills. Then he says, "Old habits die hard. Instincts and all."

Instincts indeed.

"Old fish," he teases because Wriothesley will never waste an opportunity to do so.

"You love it," murmurs Neuvillette. "You've learned to do it back—"

"Yes, yes." Wriothesley's fingers curl into the hair at the base of Neuvillette's neck, nails scraping against the fine baby strands. Neuvillette cut it short recently for the ease of it, and neither of them is used to it. Wriothesley tugs his head back to look at him properly, eyes grazing across his form. "I've missed this."

It is not that they do not share moments like this. They have their lazy mornings and days that they take off. They have lunch breaks, and tea breaks, and late-night work dates at the Opera Epiclese. But things like this, dancing together, pressed close, hands wandering, dragging down their sides, breaths mingling, just seconds away from a kiss—

No, they do not do this often enough.

"More then," says Neuvillette simply. "Give me more, and I shall return the favor."

Wriothesley's expression is so soft that Neuvillette thinks it would make for a good pillow. "Come here," he says a second time, and Neuvillette goes, crossing that distance, knowing what Wriothesley wants.

The kiss is sweet and lingering. Slow as their mouths slot against each other. They sway to the beat of horns and woodwinds, and the dulcet tones of a handsome voice. Neuvillette tries to sneak in a bit of his forked tongue and Wriothesley laughs—laughs! And what a sound it is, folded in love, and tiredness, and everything in between.

"Sweetheart," he says, nipping at Neuvillette's mouth playfully. He cups his cheek, palm warm and calloused. Then quieter, as if it's a secret for only his ears, Wriothesley whispers, "Mate," against his mouth.

It is slow-going, the way they move. Their old bones ache—even Neuvillette's—but they relish the closeness, the heat of each other. Chest to chest, lips hot and wet. Neuvillette's hand is still damp by nature but it's warmed against Wriothesley's skin, claws digging into the softness there.

Nothing else though, nothing untoward, or white-hot with heady pleasure; this is subtler, gentler, like the mist in the early morning air. Wriothesley tastes like that whiskey; smells like citrus tea, and leather, and his sandalwood aftershave. Neuvillette brushes his knuckles across his jaw and they catch against Wriothesley's end-of-the-day scruff.

"Handsome," he tells him.

A soft huff. "Old. Tired."

"And perfect. So good for me, to me."

Wriothesley presses their foreheads together and they stay like that, swaying, curling through the next song, and the next. When the needle lifts and the room falls quiet, they come to a stop.

"Bedtime," says Neuvillette, brushing Wriothesley's bangs back and kissing his forehead. "I will not take no for an answer. The paperwork will still be there in the morning."

"I hate you." He does not. He could never, not with all the time they've shared. When Neuvillette smiles and tilts his head, Wriothesley has to kiss him all over again. This time, with their mouths pressed together, he says, "I love you."

"So I've been told. Beloved, come, please."

"Right, right."

Their house is no longer fitted with gas lanterns. Wriothesley hits the light switch on the way out of the room, the Electrocity dimming. It's a short distance to the bedroom but it takes forever because they keep stopping for more kisses, for more wandering hands.

Innocent—it's all innocent, and when they fall into bed with Wriothesley dressed down, it's still innocent even then.

"Mhm, you smell good," he murmurs, cheek squished against Neuvillette's chest.

"I... ah." Wriothesley has already dozed off the moment he hit the sheets, the moment he curled against Neuvillette, warm against him. "Sweet boy," he says as if Wriothesley isn't a grown man looking nearly sixty.

There is a silver lining, he thinks. Neuvillette pets through his hair, listening to him breathe, and thanks his Authority that the mate of a Sovereign isn't so easily lost to time. For all his tiredness, Wriothesley has not, is not going anywhere.

Another night, another morning, another day they've shared. A dance and kisses to music; the sweet, low timber of Wriothesley's voice that reminds Neuvillette that he is not alone—the last century they've spent together speaks for itself.