Warning: Contains Smut

--

"So, I might very well have a problem."

Navia stills at the hesitant sound of Neuvillette's voice. He watches as her face contorts, brow furrowing as she drops the files currently nestled into her arms. She twists until she's leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over her chest as she frowns. "A problem? With work?"

"No, not..."

Neuvillette has no idea how to approach this. He is not the anxious type. Cautious, yes. Distant, certainly, but these last few weeks spent in Wriothesley's company has shown him that the adage of wisdom coming with age is a bald-faced lie. He doesn't feel wise at the moment, he feels young and restless, entirely unsure with himself.

He steels himself. Brushes his fingers along the smooth mahogany wood of his desk, and says, "Wriothesley."

And then, stupidly, he doesn't continue. Wriothesley's name just hangs on his tongue long enough to sour in his mouth.

Navia waits politely, dropping her hand to rap her fingertips against her knee. "Wriothesley," she repeats, prompting him to continue.

"I..."

"He hasn't hurt you, has he?"

Neuvillette blinks. "What? No."

"Are you sure? Cause you know that I know a guy, and I've already threatened bodily harm if he so much looks at you in the wrong way."

He chuckles, hiding the sound behind his fist. Not that he was worried about Navia's protective drive, but her candidness does wonders to ease him, at least.

"It's nothing of the sort. I just—well, this is a little awkward. I've caught feelings, and I—"

Navia bursts into laughter, the sort of laughter that's one half choking, the other half snorting. Then she clears her throat, trying to be polite—only Neuvillette knows her, and braces himself for whatever truth she's about to throw his way.

"So," she begins, "are you just now figuring this out? Because if you are, you're the last one to the dinner table."

Oh, this is embarrassing.

"Miss Navia, I do not appreciate—"

"Whatever," she cuts in. "I don't care. What's the issue here?"

Neuvillette's mouth falls open, but no answer comes. Realistically, he knows that there isn't a problem with this. It's fast—perhaps too fast—but sometimes things just work, and it's clear that he and Wriothesley fit together perfectly. It's been effortless, even as they learn more about each other. Every moment apart is a little bit of torture, and every new thing that Neuvillette learns just makes him fall harder, and—

"Oh, that look," says Navia quietly. "Neuvillette, I've never seen that look on your face."

Neuvillette meets her gaze, realizing that he'd been lost in his thoughts. Navia's expression is soft, cradled in the same sort of warmth that pulls at Neuvillette's being. She's always been insufferably patient with him throughout the years, but there's something about her expression that just makes everything feel... easier.

"I know that I, perhaps, am over thinking things, but you must forgive this old fish. I am merely unused to this. Being wanted. Wriothesley, he..." Neuvillette pulls at his face. "It isn't so much a worry that it isn't real. I just fear that something will... outweigh all of that. Eventually."

Navia nods, offering him a soft sigh. "I understand. Relationships are hard, and you're such a solitary man that it's..." She gestures vaguely. "Honestly, if it was any other man, I'd be concerned."

"But not with Wriothesley?"

That Navia knew Wriothesley decades prior still comes as a shock. Neuvillette has wanted to ask, but hasn't had the gumption to probe.

Still, Navia gives him a little bit of insight unasked for. "Wriothesley is complicated, I think. He's always been this scrappy kind of guy. Good heart, but rough edges and all that. I'm glad that the years seemed to have smoothed it out. Now he just seems... tired, but that's something you can manage, you know? He's so patient with you. Genuine. Can't really say that about others."

No, he can't. "I suppose that I'm lucky and seemed to have—how do you say, bagged a good one?"

Navia snorts. "Gods, it's strange seeing you try out catchy phrases."

"Wriothesley is far more in tune with the social niceties of the public than I am—"

"So what, you're practicing on me?"

Neuvillette straightens in his chair and smooths out the wrinkles in his trouser legs. "Well, I certainly won't if you're going to complain about it."

"No, that isn't what I said. You're in too deep. Come on, Monsieur Neuvillette, hit me with another."

"I will not."

"Repeat after me—and you can use this one the next time you text him: No need to go to a museum because you're a work of art."

"Miss Navia."

#

[Neuvillette] >> Good morning, Wriothesley.

[Neuvillette] >> It has been a few days since we've had the chance to meet, and I find myself bereft and missing your presence.

[Neuvillette] >> I had thought, perhaps a trip to the museum—but then I realized there would be no need for that, as you are already a work of art.

[Wriothesley] >> uh

[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart are we trying out pick up lines?

[Wriothesley] >> i shouldn't say trying out ig because it worked

[Wriothesley] >> youre the sugar to my tea cup and make my life a lil sweeter

[Wriothesley] >> lets carve out some time at the cafe this afternoon

#

"You know," says Wriothesley, fumbling with Neuvillette's camera, "if you wanted help taking pictures, you don't have to make up an excuse. No need to hide pretenses behind a date."

Neuvillette snorts, tugging at his tie and straightening it. "You proposed the tea date," he replies dryly. His reflection in the mirror is crisp and prefect, aside for his damned tie. He fiddles with it more. "Truth be told, I didn't expect—"

"Didn't expect what? For me to not want to spend every waking moment with you?"

Oh. Oh. Neuvillette tries to ignore the warmth that fills his chest. "Navia told me to send you—"

"Shit, so it was Navia. I knew it."

Neuvillette meets Wriothesley's gaze in the mirror. "I do think she suggested it to me in jest, for the record. Navia has taken to teasing me as of late. I thought you would appreciate it nonetheless."

Which Wriothesley had, wholly endeared by Neuvillette's awkward attempts at flirting. Neuvillette has already researched a wealth of cheesy lines for the future, each one arguably worse than the next. He can't wait to use them. Wriothesley's face will scrunch up as he laughs, and then he'll flirt right back.

It shouldn't be this easy, right? Neuvillette asked Navia, and she'd just given him this look, deigning not to answer. Probably for the best. It would've led to more questions, more concerns, and frankly, Neuvillette has about exhausted Navia's patience.

"Sweetheart."

Neuvillette blinks from his thoughts and finds Wriothesley leaning close. "I—apologies. I find myself so easily distracted these days."

Wriothesley's mouth quirks into a smirk. "Oh? Care to tell me why?"

"I think you know why." Neuvillette could play coy; he could give him a teasing smile back and make Wriothesley work for the answer, but he just closes the distance instead, planting a short and sweet kiss on Wriothesley's mouth.

When he pulls away, Neuvillette sees that Wriothesley's smirk as melting into a soft smile. "What was that for?" he asks.

"A tax. For being a bother."

Wriothesley laughs and curls his fingers around Neuvillette's chin, pulling him back. This kiss is longer, deeper. His tongue traces Neuvillette's lips—but that is all. Wriothesley pulls away with a sigh, reaching up to tug at one of Neuvillette's suit lapels. Then his tie, knotting it pristinely in a way that escaped Neuvillette's nervous fingers.

"Work. I came here to help you."

"No ulterior motive, I'm sure," replies Neuvillette.

Wriothesley hasn't even stepped fully away and Neuvillette already misses the heat of his body. "You said it, not me. Also—hang on, let me straighten this..."

Neuvillette hums, allowing Wriothesley to pull his suit into place, pulling at his shirt collar, adjusting the lapels until they sit neat and square to his shoulders. It feels... domestic, like it's a lazy morning, and Wriothesley is helping him dress. His touch is soft, reverent even. The calloused pads of his fingertips catch on the smooth fabric of Neuvillette's shirt, pulling at the threads slightly.

Were it anyone else, he might care. But this is Wriothesley; Neuvillette is so head over heels that he doesn't even think about the silk blend of his jacket, or the way that it might be wrinkled. He leans into the touch, sighing softly as Wriothesley's fingers brush across his chest, and thinks, Navia was right to make fun of me.

"You know," says Wriothesley, breaking into Neuvillette's thoughts, "you're surprisingly built. Do you work out?"

"No. Well. I swim, I suppose, occasionally. There's a private pool in this community, and I'm known to do laps when I'm stressed." Neuvillette finds peace in the water, and when he was younger, he might've indulged in the fantasy of competitive swimming. But then he hurt his knee and instead of conditioning it, Neuvillette enrolled into law school. Two decades later he still isn't sure it was the correct choice.

Wriothesley hums, nodding. "Swimmers muscles. Of course. You and your water." He shoots Neuvillette a grin. "You should come by the gym and do some sets with me."

"I would disappoint you." Neuvillette frowns. "I am not..." He gestures to Wriothesley's bulk. "I could be considered, as Navia likes to say, lazy."

"Neuvillette, you are the least lazy person I've ever met."

"I assure you when it comes to physical exertion, that is not the case. Besides, I am ill-equipped to do much nowadays. I have a bum knee and while I haven't used my cane—"

"Your cane?" Wriothesley asks genuinely, not in shock or despair, just confusion.

"Ah. Yes, I occasionally use one." Neuvillette's expression turns wry. "We haven't yet embarked out and about at length. Most of our dalliances have been... private."

Wriothesley pulls away and coughs against his fist, cheeks tinting pink, then he walks to where Neuvillette's phone is set up on a tripod. "Right. Yeah. That's..."

Neuvillette laughs, endeared by his awkward flailing. "Beloved," he says, "this is not a complaint. In fact, I rather enjoy the way we've come together—"

"Neuvillette."

"—you make it easy." Wriothesley stills in his fiddling with the camera settings, shooting him a surprised look. Neuvillette smiles at him, a half-turned pull of his lips. "No, really, Wriothesley. Unconventional as it has been, it has always felt right. I'm socially awkward, but you've done nothing but welcome that."

Wriothesley rubs at his neck. "Gods, warn a guy before you monologue about him. At least, then, I can be prepared. Anyway, pictures? You need pictures. I can take the pictures, I can—" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "I just... I get it, you know? The socially awkward thing, 'cause for fuck's sake, me too."

"Which makes us suited for each other, no?"

"Well, that, and the suits." Wriothesley gestures towards him, leering. Neuvillette feels the stare down to his bones, his cock twitching. Terrible. Terrible. Thank the Sovereigns that Navia isn't there, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Speaking of," continues Wriothesley, "how long are you going to drive me crazy in that suit."

"Drive you crazy?" Neuvillette looks down at himself, smoothing his palm down the breast of his jacket.

Then he remembers just how this all started—Wriothesley had been smitten with a very normal picture of him from the neck down.

"Don't act coy," says Wriothesley from where he stands behind his phone.

"I merely forgot. I'm unused to... such interest."

"Well, get used to it sweetheart. We've got about fifteen working minutes before I peel that suit right off of you."

Oh. Neuvillette's mouth is suddenly dry. He imagines it, Wriothesley undoing the buttons with those calloused hands of his; the way he'd press a palm against the small of his back, teasing the skin there. Wriothesley's expression is feral almost, his eyes glinting as he tilts his camera about to find the best angle.

"What a cruel thing," says Neuvillette, "saying such a thing to me."

"Consider it a bribe. The sooner we do this, the sooner I get to touch you."

Neuvillette goes to stand against the wall, next to the window. The mid-afternoon sunlight filters in through the glass, painting a glow against him. It's easy to strike a pose. Neuvillette tilts himself just so, towards the camera.

It is less easy to ignore Wriothesley, who pays no attention to what he's doing, regarding with Neuvillette with slack-jawed awe instead.

"Wriothesley," he says, "the picture?"

"Right, I—uh. Yeah, sorry. I just. Sweetheart." He calls him that so sweetly, so affectionately, and Neuvillette's heart just melts. Wriothesley fumbles with the remote timer, snapping several photos.

Neuvillette explained the process, at least. Hit the button and let him strike a few poses. Truthfully, Neuvillette can do it alone but he's always appreciated the additional eye, and Wriothesley posed interest in seeing how all of it works.

Wriothesley does his job, but it's with a searing gaze that sparks tingles down Neuvillette's spine.

"A few more," mutters Neuvillette, tilting ever so slightly. "It's easier to post to Kameragram regularly if there's a backlog. I'll change out my jacket, too—and the pocket square."

"Got it," replies Wriothesley, snapping the next set.

Neuvillette hums, turning to the side, showing off a length of his trouser leg. Effortless. Though awkward in front of people, being in front of a camera comes as no issue. Neuvillette isn't much of an actor, but he finds comfort in his clothing, in being dressed to the nines.

Wriothesley, though—Wriothesley watches him with a sharp, appreciative gaze. It should make him squirm, but... Neuvillette returns the look, heat curling in his gut.

Sovereigns, he wants.

But he has work to do.

"Wriothesley," he says, "the other jacket, please. The one hanging over the chair."

A newly acquired sport coat that's a little more dressed down than his usual, but still trendy. Paired with his well-cut trousers and tie, it'll be dressed up.

Wriothesley takes hold of it, dragging his fingers over the smooth weave. "This isn't your usual color."

"Ah, no." It's gray, a steely charcoal that shimmers in the right light. "But, one could say that I've been inspired lately. Something about stepping out of one's box. Now come here and help me?"

Wriothesley does not help him into the jacket. Wriothesley crosses the room and hands it to Neuvillette with a polite request of, "Hold this for a moment, please."

"What—"

Wriothesley grab Neuvillette by the hips and presses him back against the wall.

"Wriothesley?"

"Sweetheart, you're a menace, you know that, right?" Wriothesley slides a hand down Neuvillette's side, squeezing at it. "How cruel of you to tease me so."

"Tease you?" Neuvillette's mouth curves into a smile. "Beloved, you asked to help. You did this to yourself. Are you a glutton for punishment?"

"Sometimes." Wriothesley leans in, tilting Neuvillette's face towards his. "But, I think that I should get a reward for being so good."

Neuvillette kisses him. Wriothesley laughs against his mouth, saying, "Not exactly what I meant, but I'll accept it nonetheless."

The kiss is lazy and slow. Wriothesley cups his face, thumbing over the rise of Neuvillette's cheek softly. There is so much ease to it, a natural feeling of belonging that draws Neuvillette right in. He's left craving more, licking across the seam of Wriothesley's mouth.

"Sweetheart." It's a soft utterance, a quiet little moan that parts Wriothesley's mouth. They indulge like that too, tongues meeting, but ends quickly, with Wriothesley pulling away to press their foreheads together.

"My jacket," says Neuvillette, attempting to tease him.

"After my reward," replies Wriothesley, dropping to his knees.

Neuvillette stills as he presses his face to the front of his trousers. "Wriothesley," he murmurs, fingers curling into Wriothesley's hair for a gentle tug. "What are you—"

"You're hard," cuts in Wriothesley with a smirk. His gaze flickers up and Neuvillette can feel the blush that burns its way across his face. He'd tried to hide it, tried to make it less apparent, but he should've known better. "Which is why," continues Wriothesley, "I was talking about a reward. I've been good, holding off until now."

"Yes, you... have."

He doesn't stop Wriothesley pulling open his trousers. Neuvillette falls back against the wall, gasping as Wriothesley frees his cock, giving it a stroke.

This will not last. For either of them. Neuvillette knows that look on Wriothesley's face by now, and the tell-tale tightening of his own gut. Wriothesley is quick to lean forward, licking a stripe along the length of his cock.

"Wriothesley." Neuvillette's fingers pull at his hair. His jacket now rests over his shoulder, wrinkled. "You don't have to—"

"No, I don't." Wriothesley thumbs over the tip, precome sticking to the calloused pad. "But I want to. I already said this is a reward for me. I want to taste you, I always, always, want to taste you."

Neuvillette whimpers when Wriothesley's lips seal around his cock. He sinks down, down, until the tip is lodged against the back of his throat. Neuvillette could die. He drowns in the heat of Wriothesley's mouth, the pleasure making him go cross-eyed.

"Oh," he murmurs, unable to keep himself from bucking his hips. "You feel—" Another moan escapes his mouth as Wriothesley slides along his length, humming around it.

Wriothesley loves this, there is no doubt. He sucks on Neuvillette's cock, moaning at the taste of him, at the weight of it against his tongue. His nails dig into Neuvillette's thighs, pulling at him, encouraging him to move—which Neuvillette struggles with.

But, a little... Neuvillette's hips jerk slightly, his cock sinking deeper. His attention is rapt. Wriothesley looks up at him, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. Handsome. Deadly, even. Neuvillette's cock twitches as Wriothesley's mouth tightens around him, tongue pressed flat against the underside.

"Wriothesley, I'm going to—" Neuvillette groans.

Saliva coats his chin as he chokes around his cock. Normally, Neuvillette would worry about the wool of his trousers, but, but—

He can't think with the heat that burns through his gut; with the tight heat of Wriothesley's mouth, and the way that he moans around his cock. Neuvillette thrusts, his cock sliding through the wet slickness of his mouth. Then again, all the pleasure pulling needle-thin before it snaps entirely. He spills onto Wriothesley's awaiting tongue, and Wriothesley—he moans, a sinful sound as he swallows his come, sucking Neuvillette's cock dry.

Wriothesley palms at himself too, grinding the heel against the obvious erection in his trousers. Neuvillette wants, Sovereigns, he wants, but Wriothesley refuses to let him do anything more than just stand there and take what he's given.

"A gift," he murmurs, combing his fingers through Wriothesley's hair. "Beloved, you are a gift, and I—" He hisses as Wriothesley drags his tongue over the tip, tracing the last droplets of semen that spill from the tip.

And then it's done. Wriothesley pulls back, wiping at his mouth. He tucks away Neuvillette's cock back into his clothing, fastening the buttons, and straightening the folds of his slacks as if nothing was ever out of place.

Once standing again, Neuvillette pulls him close, cupping his face to steal a kiss. He tastes himself on Wriothesley's lips, his tongue. "Beloved," he says, chasing it, wanting more, "you've left yourself—"

"Later. I got what I wanted, and we've got more work to do." Neuvillette whines when Wriothesley pulls away, flashing him a crooked grin. "Weren't you just reminding me about the jacket?" he continues.

Neuvillette frowns. "That was before you decided to have your way with me."

"You could have said no."

Yes. Probably. He would never have. Neuvillette presses a hand to his temple and rubs it. Wriothesley has learned how to play him for a fool so easily. Still, Neuvillette can't help but be further endeared, for it took nothing for Wriothesley to find himself so greedy.

"My jacket, then," he says, holding an arm out. "Help me into it? Let's see how long you last this time before needing to get your hands on me."

Wriothesley pulls it from Neuvillette's shoulder and shakes out the wrinkles. He slides one sleeve on, and then the other. Pulls at the collar and straightens the garment across Neuvillette's shoulders. Then he leans close, his mouth next to Neuvillette's ear. "Sweetheart, I already have my hands on you. If I really wanted, I could pull you into the bedroom, no?"

Yes, yes he could, and Neuvillette would be powerless to say no. He looks at him just in time to catch Wriothesley's shit-eating grin. Wriothesley dips close and picks a short and sweet kiss against his mouth before pulling away.

"Later," he says. "For now, show off that jacket?"

Neuvillette knows a tease when he sees one, and if Wriothesley wants to play that game, he's more than happy to oblige.

#

It takes some wheedling, but Wriothesley does manage to get Neuvillette to visit the gym with him a few days later.

"You're taller in person." A pause. "And wider. Honestly, I thought you'd be a fucking twig."

Neuvillette blinks. The woman speaking is short but packed with lithe muscle. A severe expression is pulled across her face, and frankly, she's quite terrifying at first glance. "I...well—"

"Clorinde, don't terrorize him. Do you know what it took to even get him out here? I can't risk having you scare him off."

Clorinde. Wriothesley's ex-roommate. Wriothesley's best friend. Navia's apparently she-who-should-not-be-named ex-fiancée that she rambles on about when drunk. Not that he's seen that often. Neuvillette squirms under her stare, but manages to keep his head up.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Clorinde."

Her eyebrow twitches. Then one of the muscles around her mouth. She's trying to hold back laughter, or maybe a grimace. Either way, it's at his expense, but Neuvillette's habit of being insufferably polite isn't so easily broken.

"Miss," she repeats, drawing out the word slowly. "Call me that again, I'll kneecap you."

"She will," says Wriothesley from the side.

Doubtful. Maybe. Neuvillette's heard enough stories about the woman to cause doubt, however— "I doubt that you would so openly assault Fontaine's lead prosecutor."

Clorinde wets her bottom lip, chewing on her next thought. "No shit? I thought you looked familiar. I've seen you on TV."

Wonderful.

"Clorinde." Wriothesley is a blessing as he takes hold of his hands and tugs him away. "Sorry about her," he says the moment that they're out of earshot. "She's been insufferable since I nabbed you as a boyfriend, and I just—what's with that look?"

It takes a moment for what he just said to sink in. Wriothesley's mouth falls open in shock. "Wait, I said that without thinking—"

"Boyfriend," repeats Neuvillette, warmth spreading through his bones.

He'd shared his concerns with Navia about this moving too fast, anxious about his need, how easily he fell into all of this. But Wriothesley makes it easy. Neuvillette feels at home, like this is right and now that Wriothesley's called him that so effortlessly...

"I...really wasn't thinking." Wriothesley still holds Neuvillette with one hand and uses the other to rub the back of his neck. "It just slipped out. Fuck, that's embarrassing. If—"

"Wriothesley." Neuvillette tugs his knuckles close for a kiss. "Beloved, I like it. Being called that. I've never..." He trails off, leaving the obvious in the open.

Even though he dated around in his youth, nothing ever stuck, and since Neuvillette has never felt the need to find such a label. But with Wriothesley, the word boyfriend settles across his shoulders like a warm, weighted blanket. Suddenly, all that anxiety melts away because it's clear that Wriothesley shares the same water, meets the same tide.

Wriothesley sucks in a breath. His expression softens as Neuvillette offers his hand one last kiss before he pulls away.

"There is no need for worry," continues Neuvillette, trying to soothe him. "It's been... enough time to warrant that sort of..." He waves.

"It's juvenile," says Clorinde as she flits by.

"Oh, fuck off," snaps Wriothesley, shooting her a rude gesture.

Clorinde just shoots one back before slipping into the women's locker room.

"Rude," hisses Wriothesley. "She's so rude. She's—"

"Teasing you." Neuvillette's dry tone seems to calm Wriothesley's nerves.

He drags a hand through his hair. "I—yeah, she probably is. Still, she can fuck off. I wasn't joking about that. I don't need her jaded views on romance to rub off on me."

"Would they?" Neuvillette doesn't think they would, so he's teasing Wriothesley too, and the wince he received in return makes him chuckle. "Fear not. I'm not so easily ridden of."

"So I noticed. Anyway—stretches. Stretches? We should do that. Warm-ups, and the like. Come on."

They don't immediately start their work-out. Wriothesley has the decency to show him around the gym, his chest puffed with pride. He should be. Proud. The gym isn't small by any means, and Wriothesley greets every person there by name and with a smile. His genial energy is infectious, and Neuvillette is reminded just what drew him to Wriothesley in the first place.

"The infirmary," says Wriothesley, jerking a thumb towards the back. "Wouldn't step in there unless your life depended on it, otherwise Sige might try to force a protein shake down your throat." He gives Neuvillette a searing once over. "Yeah, one look and she'd all but adopt you. Stay clear. And over there—the locker rooms. Want to go change?"

Changing is quick and efficient, not that Neuvillette thought it would be anything else. Wriothesley is a gentleman. Wriothesley turns his back and maintains a semblance of propriety as Neuvillette strips down and changes into a borrowed set of work out shorts and a tank top.

When Wriothesley looks, he stills. Blinks. "I—"

"You said that I could borrow them." They're similar enough in size that it made sense, but they do slightly hang on Neuvillette's thinner frame.

"Yes, but..." Wriothesley's throat bobs as he swallows. Then he clears his throat, looking away politely. "You know what? That's a thought for later."

"Right," muses Neuvillette. "To the stretches, then?"

The stretches, in fact, make it worse. Or better. Neuvillette isn't sure, but he is sure that he enjoys Wriothesley's gentle guidance in pushing himself to his limits. His muscles burn pleasantly. Neuvillette groans softly, bent half over, one knee against the padded floor.

"You know," says Wriothesley from next to him, "I would say that this is the least amount of clothing I've ever seen you in, but—" His voice is quiet enough that most won't here, but Neuvillette's face burns red regardless.

"Wriothesley."

Wriothesley just laughs and presses the heel of his palm against the small of Neuvillette's back, forcing him over until the backs of his thighs strain.

And that's how it goes, the stretching. Wriothesley's hands never leave him, but never stray anywhere untoward. It's comforting, but it's also... thick. The air between them simmers, and though Neuvillette has a tight reign on his composure, even though Wriothesley does nothing more than shoot him a cocky grin, Neuvillette has a distinct feeling that the end of their night will have a happy ending.

Clorinde stares. She sits on a bench across the gym, doing bicep curls with a twenty-pound barbell. Studying them, her face pulled into an intense, stern look. Neuvillette understands Wriothesley's hesitation with her now; Clorinde could and would break his back in half.

"Navia," he murmurs to himself.

Wriothesley catches it. "Hm? What about her?"

Neuvillette's gaze flickers back to Clorinde, but she's looked away, talking to another gym-goer and gesturing to the weight rack. "I cannot imagine..." He nods towards her. "Miss Clorinde seems..."

"Ah. Well." Wriothesley thumbs a circle into the space between Neuvillette's shoulder blades, massaging the subtle ache there. "Clorinde's a different person now, and a lot of that is because of what happened. And I know you won't ask, and it's not my story to tell. Nothing bad happened, but they just didn't work out, and Clorinde kind of..."

Wriothesley sighs and it speaks volumes.

"Not so different from us, I suppose," concludes Neuvillette.

"Hah. Not really, not that you mention it. For me, I was just never really cut out for relationships, but I also never wanted one. Settling down has never been much of a thought."

Neuvillette gives him a lopsided smile. "And now?"

"Now, I'm reconsidering." Wriothesley smacks him across the back hard enough the Neuvillette hisses in surprise. "Don't worry about them, worry about yourself. It's cool downtime. Go grab some water and call it a day, yeah?"

Neuvillette rights himself and shudders. "Is it tap water?"

Wriothesley snorts. "Nothing fancy here, sweetheart. Sorry."

Normally, he would dislike it, considering his particular tastes in water. But Neuvillette just hums, rolling with it. If Wriothesley can suffer through the acrid taste of rusted metal and added fluoride, so can he.

#

"Wriothesley."

He jumps at the sound of Clorinde's voice. "Archons, fuck."

Clorinde's arms are crossed over her chest when he looks, her shoulder resting against a locker. She wears a severe expression, one that bodes a serious conversation that Wriothesley isn't sure that he's ready to have.

"I don't want to hear it," he preemptively tells her. Neuvillette is in the showers, rinsing off, and the locker room itself is empty save for the two of them.

"Wriothesley."

"What was it that you said? That you've already accepted the inevitable?"

"I also said that I didn't approve."

Wriothesley turns to her fully, slinging a clean shirt over his shoulder. "I didn't get murdered by an Internet weirdo, did I? Come on, sunshine, you can admit it—I was right this time."

He expects a retort, a whip-smart comeback seething with annoyance. But Clorinde just sighs, rubbing at her face, looking more tired than she's ever looked before. "Yeah, you... Gods, I can't believe I'm about to admit to this—"

"Oh?" Wriothesley perks up, leaning against his locker with a smirk on his face. "Do go on."

"It's clear that he's smitten. I thought you were bad, but Celestia above, it's mutual. The two of you—" Clorinde grunts in a decidedly unladylike fashion. "He seems genuine."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment. Wriothesley, that's the problem—what happens to that man when it doesn't work out?"

How fucking rude. Wriothesley's smirk melts into a frown, and he turns away. "When," he repeats, the word burning through his tongue, "not if."

Clorinde's mouth falls open. "Wait, I didn't mean it like—"

"You absolutely did."

And honestly, he doesn't blame her. Wriothesley has spent two decades sabotaging relationships intentionally. Clorinde is concerned that his judgment is clouded, that this is some midlife crisis that he's been sucked right into. Which isn't untrue. Technically. Wriothesley would've never indulged had he been younger and less lonely.

But Neuvillette... they are birds of a feather in that way. And Wriothesley is tired of that loneliness.

"You're a heartbreaker, Wriothesley." Clorinde's voice is softer than usual. "And even if you don't mean to, even if you don't want to—"

"What? It's inevitable?" Wriothesley is already growing tired of this conversation. He tugs on his clean shirt and packs up his bag. "I thought you were in my wheelhouse, Clorinde."

"I am."

"Are you? Doesn't sound like you are."

Clorinde lets loose a frustrated sound. "I'm going to defer to whatever you want—I've always done that. But I'm also here to be the voice of fucking reason when you have none. This... contrary to what you might think, I want this to work out for you. Wriothesley, I haven't seen you this happy in years."

Wriothesley smooths his thumb along the nylon strap of his gym bag. He refuses to look at her, but he does ask, "I haven't been. Fuck, Clorinde, I haven't been happy for a damn decade. Neuvillette... he's just... warm. I don't know. I can't describe it."

But he knows that Clorinde knows. Her gaze turns stormy, and he knows that she's thinking about days gone past, about Navia and what they were, what they could've been. And that's her concern. Clorinde has always known him the best because they are two, self-destructive peas in a pod, and she doesn't want history to repeat itself.

"The lead prosecutor," she muses, then, her expression turning wry. "Have you told him about your record?"

"You mean the sealed one? The one that doesn't matter?"

"It might to him. He has an image to uphold."

Wriothesley thinks that Neuvillette doesn't care much about his image beyond the bare necessities.

"You'll tell him, right?" Wriothesley doesn't answer, and Clorinde purses her lips. "Wriothesley, you have to tell him."

"I don't need advice from you, of all people. It's not as though you have a glittering track record."

It's a low blow. Hit's beneath the belt in a way that rattles her bones, and he meant for it to. Clorinde barely hides her snarl, her entire being going tense. But then she reels it back and says, with deathly calm, "I don't want you to turn out like me." She sighs, dragging a hand through her hair as she forces herself to breathe. "You've still got a chance."

"I—"

Clorinde throws up a hand to stop him. "Save it. Let me go sweat off my anger. You can apologize later." A pause. "Also, no fucking."

"We aren't going to—"

"I know you. I don't know him, but I know you. I will get Sige if the two of you are alone in here for longer than five minutes."

Wriothesley shoots her a wicked grin. "You think we'd last longer than five minutes? I'm flattered."

Clorinde looks appalled, her face pulling into a grimace of comical proportions. And then, Neuvillette walks into the changing area from the showers, a towel wrapped around his waist, slung low enough to show off the line of his—

She throws herself out the door in a blink of an eye.

Neuvillette stands there, confused, squeezing his hair dry with a second towel. "Was she...?"

"Unspoken rule that she's allowed in here. Lesbian, and all."

Neuvillette mulls this over for a moment, then shrugs, and Wriothesley is thankful for the break in the tension.

"Come here," he says, feeling needy, greedy, wanting to just press his hands against Neuvillette's skin. Which he does, fingers tracing damp skin. And then Wriothesley kisses him, slow and sweet, before pulling away.

"What was that for?" asks Neuvillette when they part, mouths still hovering close.

"Palate cleanser." Wriothesley gestures to the door.

"Ah. Miss Clorinde?"

"My worst nightmare."

Neuvillette laughs, and everything feels better.

#

[Wriothesley] >> so what do you think about coming over tonight?

[Wriothesley] >> for a dinner and a movie

[Wriothesley] >> to be clear, i mean my place

[Wriothesley] >> im a mid cook but i think i can manage some soup

[Neuvillette] >> Good afternoon, Wriothesley.

[Neuvillette] >> Dinner sounds wonderful, but I find myself worried about your concern regarding your ability to cook.

[Neuvillette] >> Should I pick up some takeout?

[Wriothesley] >> im really not that bad

[Wriothesley] >> clorinde never complained

[Neuvillette] >> Was it that she never complained, or you chose to ignore her complaining?

[Wriothesley] >> touche monsieur

[Wriothesley] >> but for real dinner and a movie? around six?

[Neuvillette] >> I would love nothing more.

#

"Sorry, it's a mess. A little bit. Compared to your place, at least. I'm not..." Wriothesley gestures vaguely as Neuvillette steps past the threshold. "I tidied a little bit, at least."

He tells himself that there's no need to be nervous. Neuvillette has never shown an inkling of care about things like this. Sure, his town home was pristine and polished spotless, everything tucked away into its own little spot.

Wriothesley's apartment is tiny in comparison, things neatly placed into—what Clorinde likes to call—organized piles. They make sense to him, at least. Maybe to others if they squint. Point is that it doesn't matter; Wriothesley lives alone and his mess is his mess.

But Neuvillette... so, he didn't panic. Okay, he did a little, going about his apartment and fluffing those piles into something a little more presentable. Anxiety doesn't wash over him, per se, but he's... hesitant.

For one and done fucks, he's always gone elsewhere. Wriothesley wrings his hands as Neuvillette kicks of his shoes, leaning over to set them neatly by the door. So prim and proper. So, so...

"Wriothesley?"

Just like that, he's soothed. Is it stupid for him to ease at just the sound of Neuvillette's voice? Probably. Wriothesley isn't going to question it.

"Ah, I was just thinking. I haven't had anyone over in..." Years. It's been years. He shrugs. "Clorinde doesn't count."

"She doesn't?"

"She has a key and has been known to pay the Electro bill on the odd occasion when I forget."

Neuvillette's expression crinkles fondly. "Does that mean she sorts through your mail?"

Wriothesley can sense an upcoming joke about the legality of that. "It means that she still has the logins to the utilities. Which, hey, I won't complain, but she makes me pay her back double. Shit, where are my manners. Come in. In."

They settle in. Clorinde had made a joke a few weeks back about how dating was like riding a bicycle. Wriothesley flipped her off, citing that she was wrong, but now he's thinking that maybe he owes her an apology.

Neuvillette waffles about his home in socked feet, a blanket around his shoulders, and hisbangs clipped back away from his face. "Cold," he mutters, eyes flickering to the AC unit. "Must you keep it this cold?"

It's the sort of domestic shit that Wriothesley dreams about, the sweet casual nothings that would bore others to tears. But to him, they're the sort of things he never thought he'd have a shot at. Neuvillette looks like he belongs, and not just because he's half-covered in Wriothesley's things, it's because he just... fits into the picture.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I run hot."

Neuvillette frowns, shuffling into the small kitchen. He peeks over Wriothesley's shoulder, resting his chin against the wide expanse. "Soup?"

"A stew," corrects Wriothesley. "Figured we'd meet in the middle. I have to have something more than just salted liquid."

"Liquid," repeats Neuvillette, and Wriothesley can practically feel the upturn of his nose. "What a... lacking descriptor for something that can carry such a depth of flavor."

"You know what else carries a depth of flavor? Stew. This one isn't fancy and it's one of the few things my sister taught me, but—"

"Sister?"

Oh. Oh, shit. Wriothesley hadn't meant to say that. The thought just flew right from his mouth. "I... yeah. We, uh, don't talk. It's complicated."

"Alright."

Wriothesley stills in his stirring of soup. "That's it? No further questions? Just alright?"

Neuvillette tilts his face towards him, his chin still resting on its perch. "Yes, it is alright. My curiosity is piqued, but you would tell me if you wanted to."

"Neuvillette—"

"I am here for you, not any mentions of your family. Whatever you choose to share, I will listen, but I will never expect."

Relief floods through him, and Neuvillette must feel the way the tension dissipates. He lifts his head and leans close, pressing a kiss to Wriothesley's temple, leaving it at that. This, too, is domestic. Sweet. Wriothesley nearly forgets to stir the damn stew, cursing softly when it begins to burn.

Neuvillette eats it all the same. Seems to enjoy it, even, draining the entirety of his bowl. "You went all out," he muses, tilting the bottle of water Wriothesley tossed at him earlier.

"Sweetheart, I bought that at the corner store for a hundred Mora. I can't even guarantee that it's real spring water."

A soft smile breaks out onto Neuvillette's mouth. "Ah, well." He traces the rim of bottle and gives Wriothesley a mock toast. "It's the thought that counts. And, truthfully, anything is better than the tap at your gym."

Wriothesley laughs, shoving a spoon of food into his mouth. "Take it up with Sige," he replies, "though I suggest you don't."

It is hard to settle on a movie. Wriothesley supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised, but Neuvillette doesn't watch much of anything—aside from his stream. Neuvillette tells him this with open honesty, and it leaves Wriothesley a sputtering mess, hiding his pink face as he roots through his movie cabinet.

"That's—sweetheart."

"I feel as though I've told you this before."

Yes, and every damn time makes Wriothesley embarrassed. But warm, oh so warm, and that's what he's thinking as they pack of the leftovers, as they wash the dishes, as they mill about the kitchen putting things away.

The apartment is small. There's a living area with a couch and a television, but Wriothesley shuffles Neuvillette away into the bedroom instead. Neuvillette shoots him a sly grin from the doorway where he leans against the frame.

"Don't give me that look," mumbles Wriothesley. "It's just more comfortable in here, and it's a better TV."

"I'm not giving you a look." He is. It's a lie. Neuvillette is caught between hesitation and curiosity, and it makes Wriothesley's gut squirm in a good way, the nice sort of nervousness born of excitement, not dread.

Wriothesley stills, smoothing his hand across the bedspread. "I assume you'll stay over. I just... I'm—I'm happy, you know? Like, I just want to lay here and enjoy a movie with you. And that's it. I never want you to feel like things are expected, or—"

"There is never an expectation, Wriothesley. It has been, always, wherever you want to lead this." Neuvillette chuckles softly, his face soft. "There is no need to overthink it."

"That is my worst trait."

Neuvillette hums and steps into the room. "Practice, then. Yes? Let me dressed down for the night. Pick a movie and I'll—" He pauses, face tilting towards another door. "Bathroom?"

Neuvillette so easily steals his words away. And really, maybe Wriothesley is stupid. Men their age just want to fuck and move on, but Neuvillette just makes him feel comfortable, accepting Wriothesley's wish to just... settle in and enjoy each other.

He fidgets while Neuvillette's in the bathroom, pulling down the sheets, pulling them back up. He agonizes over whether he should wear sleeping trousers, or boxers—it's not as if Neuvillette hasn't seen him naked. Should he shower? Brush his teeth, yes, but does the rest of his day need to be washed off even though he rinsed at the gym?

Wriothesley pulls at his face, eventually settling on a loose pair of sweatpants and a plain black shirt. Then, he fishes out his phone.

[Wriothesley] >> how do people fucking date

[Wriothesley] >> like how do you just have dinner and a movie and ONLY dinner and a movie???

[LesBAEin] >> Why the fuck are you asking me?

[Wriothesley] >> its weird

[Wriothesley] >> good weird not bad weird

[Wriothesley] >> neuvillette is good weird

[LesBAEin] >> For fuck's sake just turn on the damn TV and watch the movie.

So, sound advice. Clorinde really has a knack for making him feeling fucking stupid.

It's just that it's been so easy sinking into to this that Wriothesley expects it to go south at any moment because that's just been his luck his entire damn life. He remembers her earlier words: Wriothesley, you have to tell him.

Wriothesley has locked up his youth so tightly that he's not sure that even he can get that door open again. But, but—

She's right. Wriothesley drags a hand through his hair, sighing.

[LesBAEin] >> The idiot is so gone for you. Just be yourself.

Wriothesley should buy her next cup of coffee. Or take her to the shooting range. Something. Clorinde puts up with his dumb ass, and it's past time to pay that toll. He's about to type a response when Neuvillette returns, fresh-faced, hair tied back in a loose braid, and smelling like his soap.

Possessiveness bleeds through Wriothesley and he's already turning towards Neuvillette as he steps closer.

"It is fortuitous," says Neuvillette, pulling his shirt from his trousers, "that I had the forethought to dress casually today. I don't often wear t-shirts, but..." He drags a hand down his front, laughing softly. "There are no expectations, as I said, but there was a hope."

Wriothesley leans in and kisses him, something short and sweet that has Neuvillette smiling against his mouth. "A hope," he murmurs, cupping Neuvillette's cheek. "You really know how to make a guy feel wanted."

"I really do wish you would find yourself deserving."

"I—sweetheart, I do—"

"But," interrupts Neuvillette.

"But you're just..."

Neuvillette pulls back slightly. "I'm what? Above you? More than? Please, Wriothesley, I am allowed to make my own decisions, and currently all of those involve you."

Fuck, he's messed this up.

But maybe he hasn't. Neuvillette doesn't look annoyed, he just watches Wriothesley with this placid expression that's so incredibly fond.

"The movie," prompts Neuvillette, tactfully changing the subject. "Did you pick one?"

"Twelve Angry Oceanids."

Neuvillette blinks. "Do you think I haven't seen just about every courtroom drama known to man?" he asks with dry humor.

Wriothesley grins. "No," he says, "I counted on that. It's a good movie even on a rewatch, but it also means that we can get distracted."

It takes a moment for Neuvillette to grasp what he means. His expression turns heady and his lips part, and fuck, Wriothesley wants to kiss them again.

Later. Later, when the lights are out, and they're half-way through the movie, the dialogue fading into the background as they just make out lazily. Teenage stuff. But the teenage stuff is good, and Wriothesley has found that he likes this honeymooning stage.

"Distracted," repeats Neuvillette. "Distractions are welcome."

"Noted."

Wriothesley's nerves ease the moment they settle into the sheets, Neuvillette slotted against his side, head resting against Wriothesley's shoulder.

They do make out later, the last half of the movie lost, nothing but background noise as Neuvillette laughs against his mouth. But that's all they do—lay there and kiss, and share bits and pieces of themselves, and once against Wriothesley is left with the thought that this, the two of them together, is just nice.