Neuvillette touches Wriothesley's scars and realizes he's in love.

--

"Wait, isn't that your fancy shampoo?"

Nevillette pauses. Wriothesley's face is half-obscured by the steam of the shower but Neuvillette makes out the arch of his brows as he looks at the jar in his hand. Neuvillette's gaze shifts, taking in the tempered glass. "I... well. I only have the one kind."

A statement of fact. An ill attempt at teasing, but the point of the matter is that Neuvillette still tries.

And yes, it's fancy. Pale blue and shimmering, like a robin's egg. Neuvillette's hair is thick and voluminous, but the strands are thin. It requires a lot of work to keep it in good condition, so only the finest of soaps find their way into his bathroom. Worth the money, he reasons, not that he thinks much about cost.

Wriothesley, though, must. Even as a Duke, even with a title, money is something that he lacks having diverted a large portion of his pay to the Fortress instead. Commendable. Neuvillette knows that despite enjoying the finer things, Wriothesley is perfectly fine with settling for less for the sake of others. "I prefer a lived experience," he'd said once. "It isn't about the baubles, yeah?"

His lived experiences could fill a book. Not for the first time Neuvillette has thought to pen them but his bitter-old and draconian instincts crave for him to squirrel Wriothesley away. Only for him. This side—only he gets to see.

Wriothesley would likely agree.

"I left some of my own," he says, cutting into Neuvillette's thoughts. "The last time I was here, I—" Wriothesley cuts himself off with a frown as he pokes around the shower.

Neuvillette hides a smile, leaning against the tiles, watching. How does he explain to him that he used it? That he wanted to drown in Wriothesley's scent in his absence? Every drop of it is gone, lathered into silky strands that Neuvillette would shove his nose into later. He may have a tighter rein on his alpha but even he is prone to missing his—

His brain pauses. Neuvillette's mouth parts and he licks his lips, reminding himself that it's okay to think of Wriothesley as a mate in the confines of his thoughts. And gods, it is delicious—the thought of it. Many nights are spent ruminating about the potential completion of his being. Hence the shampoo. The desperate sighs loosed in his bed as he chased the remains of Wriothsely's scent that clung to the pillows.

"It was used." As Neuvillette admits it, his alpha purrs, delighted. He presses the shampoo into Wriothesley's palm, eager for the sentiment to be returned. "And so, it's your turn to abuse my property instead."

Wriothesley chuckles as he uncaps it. "Is that what you did? Weren't you going off about how dry the ends of your hair have been lately?"

"Yes. Easily trimmed off and worth the bother if it means going to sleep surrounded by your smell."

Neuvillette isn't an unfeeling man, but his brand of affection is carefully measured. Blunt, yes—but never quite so plainly stated. His explanation lacks his usual, verbose monologuing as he awkwardly attempts to string together his feelings.

For Wriothesley it comes easily. Or seems to. He always smells pleased the moment Neuvillette steps into his space. Quick to pull him close, to get his hands on him; quick to thumb over his hip bones, to nip at Neuvillette's throat, to inhale his scent. Quick to whisper sweet nothing in his ear as he pets his hair.

Neuvillette is out of his depth, woefully unpracticed when it comes to matters of the heart.

And Wriothesley knows that, used to his skirting around the main point. This time he stands there, surprised, cheeks flush with a hint of pink. "I—well, that's...Hah."

It isn't often that he renders Wriothesley speechless. He rubs his face, thinking, then pours a generous amount of the shampoo into his palm. Neuvillette watches as he drags his fingers through his hair, nails scraping over his scalp as he massages the suds through the coarse strands.

Wriothesley smells flustered—but the sort of flustered that comes with one's heart in their throat. Not arousal; it lacks that distinct sharp, spicy smell, but this is—

Neuvillette relaxes against the wall and just... enjoys the sight. Wriothesley is always on high alert, but here, he is quiet. Contemplative. Soft, even. All of his sharp edges seem rounded at the corners. He turns underneath the shower spray to rinse the soap from his hair, leaning forward to get the back of his neck.

The trust comes as a rush. Wriothesley sleeps with one eye open—except for when they share a bed. He never turns his back on the entrance to a room, but here he bares himself so readily, facing away from Neuvillette without a second thought.

So many marks, so many scars. Neuvillette itches to touch, to drag his claws down his spine, tracing each knob of bone. And so he does. Neuvillette steps closer and presses his palm against Wriothesley's waist.

Wriothesley jumps, startled, but then leans back against him and chuckles. "Oh? Getting a handful?"

"Nothing so licentious. I merely want to touch, that is all."

Wriothesley tilts his head, his bangs dripping wet and plastered against his brow. But he says nothing else, just lets Neuvillette's hands explore. He brushes his knuckles across a long gash that cuts across Wriothesley's lower back. Then upwards, over a curved thing, smaller, just underneath his ribcage.

"Superficial," mutters Wriothesley, knowing his thoughts.

There is nothing superficial about these wounds. And that plagues Neuvillette. "Wriothesley, don't need to pretend with me."

Silence. He is so quiet that for a moment that Neuvillette looks up, concerned that he may have crossed a line. Wriothesley's throat bobs. "They were with Sigewenne around. They always are, still."

"Needlessly putting yourself at risk." Neuvillette huffs at the thought. "Boxing."

Wriothesley chuckles, easing back into his regular self. "All the better for you to bandage me up, right?"

"I tire of your hands being a mess."

"I like the way it feels."

Neuvillette rests his chin against Wriothesley's shoulder, uncaring of the spray of the shower. He is water incarnate, made of it, even. A trivial matter even as it gets into his eyes. Wriothesley sighs as Neuvillette's hand snakes around, claws ghosting the smooth plane of his stomach.

"I would prefer it if you were more careful," he says close to Wriothesley's ear. "You only have so many fingers."

"Yeah, but—" Wriothesley becomes strangely tongue-tied.

"But?"

"The sting of it... That used to be the reminder that I'm alive."

Neuvillette stills at that. They stand there, pressed against each other, his chest flush against Wriothesley's back. He smells like soap. Sweetness. Home. Comfortable, even in his hesitation. Neuvillette purrs at the smell of his shampoo dripping from his hair. "Used to be," he echoes.

"Don't make me get sappy."

Of the two of them, Wriothesley is freer with his endearments and lingering touches. But here, at this moment, it's Neuvillette's fingers that roam, tracing lazy circles against Wriothesley's skin as he considers each and every scar.

Wriothesley turns. Presses his back against the wall until the water douses Neuvillette entirely. Then he laughs, amused by the way Neuvillette is drenched, entirely sodden.

"Cute," says Neuvillette dryly. It is anything but, but he finds that the way Wriothesley's face crinkles with laughter is well worth bearing the tease.

Wriothesley tugs him to the side, just barely out of the stream. Neuvillette leans forward, boxing him against the wall, pressing his face against his nape. He inhales, nose caught in the juncture of Wriothesley's throat and jaw. Leather and black tea. The undercurrent of citrus. Even the sharp tang of the shampoo doesn't hide it. He kisses the sweet spot of Wriothesley's scent gland before pulling back.

"Are you done with your fun?" asks Wriothesley.

Neuvillette's eyes drop to settle on an old bite mark from another alpha, settled right at the end of Wriothesley's collarbone. Rage rolls through him, momentarily, the tiniest flare in his chest—but he knows that he is not Wriothesley's first, that the social hierarchy of Meropide is vastly different than the surface. Plus, Wriothesley's tastes and attraction to other alphas...

Still. Neuvillette's alpha is displeased nonetheless. Something about his old lizard brain rearing its ugly head.

"It was a fight." Wriothesley's voice is quiet. Strangely subdued.

Neuvillette realizes that he is staring and clears his throat. "Oh?"

But there is no laughter in Wriothesley's gaze, no teasing quirk of his lips as he recounts the tale. "A real fight. One for dominance. Another alpha didn't like me treading on his territory."

"And?"

"I ripped his throat out."

Neuvillette's alpha roars in satisfaction. His mate is strong. He can, and has protected himself. Alpha, alpha, alpha, he thinks, resisting the urge to kiss Wriothesley stupid. But the heat that curls in Neuvillette's gut isn't the heady sort; it is a gentle roil unlike arousal. Something else other than pleasure surges through his veins, something sweeter, lesser-known.

He distracts himself by cupping Wriothesley's cheek, thumbing over the mark etched into his skin underneath his eye.

The moment is broken by Wriothesley's look and the way he tenses. Time stretches. Neuvillette waits patiently as he pets the scar, thumb dragging over the length of it. Eventually, Wriothesley shudders and gives in, leaning against his palm, turning to nuzzle it.

"A knife," he murmurs. His breath is hot against Neuvillette's skin—hotter than the lukewarm shower. "She fought back."

That woman. Neuvillette has never asked despite Wriothesley's insistence that he is allowed to. "You can," he'd said that night he'd brushed out Neuvillette's hair. "Only you."

The moment has never been right. Neuvillette doesn't want to intrude, or risk overstepping. Moments like this when Wriothesley is tense are hair-triggers and though Neuvillette can fight him off, he doesn't want to.

Everything they've built... he doesn't wish to lose it.

But Wriothesley isn't a flighty man. Even when provoked he always calms himself and comes back to him, unable to stay away. It is gravitational. He wonders when it morphed from a push and pull, to a gentle rocking.

Neuvillette's hand slips lower in a bold move, fingers curling against the jagged marks at his throat. A risk. Wriothesley watches him with a red-hot, hawklike gaze. On edge, thinks Neuvillette. Wriothesley's alpha is tense. His throat bobs underneath his thumb as he traces the apple of it.

He knows the origin of these scars. He's read Wriothesley's file enough to have the words seared into his hindbrain. Evidence shows the injury is self-inflicted. Any lesser alpha would have died after clawing their own throat out. Neuvillette thinks about this far too often, and then he thinks about Wriothesley's stone-solid resolve in the aftermath of his crime. A survivor. His mate is the strongest man that he knows.

Neuvillette is about to pull back when Wriothesley grabs his wrist. "You can touch," he says.

"Wriothesley—"

"I want you to. I—look. With you, it's different. You love my scars. You love this part of me."

A word that carries a heavy weight. It is then that Neuvillette realizes the heat that curls through his gut, that makes his heart spin, and that quells the raging beast in his chest at the mere sight of him. Wriothskey's scent—Archons, Neuvillette could drown in it. He'd wear it openly, happily claimed for others to see. Heeled. Well trained. Good for him, something that is shared in equal form.

It should have been obvious that he has come to love Wriothesley. Neuvillette is fledgling in this, though—matters of the heart. "That is a bold claim to make for another," he says, pushing past the realization.

"I am not wrong." It is not a question. It isn't even confident; Wriothsely just states it as a fact.

Neuvillette wishes they weren't in the shower. "Beloved," he mutters as he pets the thick scars across Wriothesley's throat. He continues with, "Your resolve is to be admired. Cherished, even. Others look at these scars and may find them ugly, but—as you said—I love them."

He kisses one. Then the next. And then the last.

Wriothesley's fingers curl into his wet hair and hold him there. A silent plea. Neuvillette noses at his pulse next, humming at the gentle request for more. Neuvillette is greedy. Wriothesley clings to him as if he can right the wrongs of the past. And he can't, no matter how much he craves that he could. But this is the present. Wriothesley lives and breathes his name in a sharp gasp.

There is little Neuvillette wants in the name of revenge. This, though, haunts him. The horrors of Wriothesley's past, a weight across the broad expanse of his shoulders, draped over them as a mantle of justice. It is not his fault, nor Wriothesley's, but his instincts don't care. Neuvillette craves to protect him and be protected in return.

Wriothesley takes, then, fingers tugging at his wet hair, demanding more kisses. And Neuvillette gives, losing himself in the feel of him, and the way that Wriothesley keens as he licks across the thick, gnarled skin that marks his throat.

Neuvillette lavishes those scars until the water runs cold.