As it turns out, Neuvillette is just very bad at flirting.

--

Too close. That is the first thing that Wriothesley thinks when Neuvillette leans into his space.

It is welcome. Gods, is it welcome because Wriothesley has been one skipped beat away from a heart attack for far too long. When did his mild interest turn into heat that curls in his chest? When did their scant meetings turn into once a day, and then tea breaks and lunch strolls, and lingering touches as they press too close for men who are merely colleagues?

"Monsieur Neuvillette—"

Neuvillette's hand brushes over the length of his shoulder. Leather meets the soft fabric of Wriothesley's shirt. Time stands still as Neuvillette's fingers pull at the material. "A loose thread," he explains.

There is no loose thread. Wriothesley has only a few indulgences, but expensive tea and perfectly tailored clothing are among them. His shirts are pressed properly, crisp at the shoulders, and stitched to perfection.

Neuvillette's hand lingers. "Wriothesley..." His voice trails off, hesitant. A question sits on the tip of his tongue.

Wriothesley, still leaning over his desk, hands tight around a stack of reports, stares back. "Yeah?" His heart is in his throat. His chest aches as he pines like a damn teenager.

Neuvillette's gaze shifts to meet him directly, those pale eyes calculating. "Haven't I told you that there is no need for titles when it is just the two of us?"

Yes. A thousand times, Wriothesley thinks. He laughs. "Well, you know what they say—you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"You can't teach..." Neuvillette considers this phrase. "Ah. No matter. If you would rather we maintain a more professional relationship, then I am happy to—"

"Professional?" Wriothesley laughs again, waving the stack of reports. "I mean, I came here to discuss these with you. We are, currently, working."

"Work aside—"

"Don't you know not to mix business and pleasure?" Wriothesley means it as a joke but Neuvillette frowns all the same. Curious.

"Alright, then. Sit and we'll discuss these reports, and then you can be on your way."

And that's what they do. Wriothesley brews a pot of tea and pours himself a cup. Neuvillette gets a mug of water, straight from the tap. He'll wrinkle his nose at the taste but drink it nonetheless, and Wriothesley will warm at the thought of him powering through.

The reports are boring; new intakes at the Fortress, allowances as to what they need, special cases, and considerations. Wriothesley nods as Neuvillette drones on, his voice deep and quiet. Everything has shifted with the death of their Archon. Neuvillette is not a man of change but has adapted surprisingly well, a testament to that strength Wriothesley has become so enamored with.

They work so well together, which is nothing new but without Lady Furina looking over his shoulder Neuvillette has eased, allowing himself to collaborate more freely with others. And Wriothesley—well, they've always held a closeness, a friendship that's grown over the years but...

"Your Grace?"

Wriothesley pulls out of his thoughts and frowns at the title. But, before he can say anything, Neuvillette taps at the current report with long and delicate fingers, sharpened claws tracing neat handwriting.

"The proposed budget. Is it to your liking?"

"I—" Wriothesley thumbs his chin. "It's certainly more generous than what I'm used to."

Neuvillette hums. "Rehabilitation—that is the point, is it not? Surely it is better to fund those merits than other more... frivolous endeavors."

Wriothesley grins at him. "Like Lady Furina's cake habits?" Neuvillette's expression sours, which means yes. "Joking aside, the change is welcome and it'll certainly be put to good use." Wriothesley reaches out and signs off on the budget report, effectively approving it. "And, with that, I think that's it for today. And thank the Archons because I'm tired."

Neuvillette sneers at his quip, but has enough propriety to shake it off. Wriothesley stands, moving to clean up the teapot and their cups. Neuvillette watches from his desk, his gaze tracking every movement. Inhuman—that's the thought Wriothesley has. Inhuman and graceful, and so handsome.

It's always been obvious that Neuvillette isn't mortal; he's been the Chief Justice for centuries and some. But Wriothesley has never been bothered by the thought or considered it much.

Clean-up is quiet, the sound of the sink cutting through the air as Wriothesley rinses the porcelain ware. Once set back onto the shelves properly, he moves to retrieve his coat from the back of the chair he just occupied. "Well, today's been—"

"Wriothesley."

He blinks at Neuvillette. "Oh? No longer Your Grace?"

Neuvillette regards him with a cool, if amused look. "Our work is done for the day. Is this not the time to call you by your name? At this moment it is, once again, merely the two of us. But, perhaps I was wrong in my assumption that—"

"Your assumption?"

Frankly, Neuvillette is acting... strangely. Wriothesley is curious, though, as to where all of this is coming from.

"I... well, earlier you implied that our relationship was merely professional. I had hoped that if we were to be more casual with each other, then my affections would be easier received—"

"Affections?"

Neuvillette's mouth parts. He is, seemingly, as confused as Wriothesley is. "I apologize," says Neuvillette, then. "Clearly I have misread the room, as the saying goes. I am, admittedly, not the best at articulating my feelings. Decades of observing mortals flirt and yet I seem to have failed miserably."

Oh. Oh. Wriothesley gapes at him but Neuvillette seems to not notice, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

"There is a certain art to it," Wriothesley eventually says. "Requires practice."

Neuvillette finally looks at him again. "And would such practice be appreciated?"

"Yes." The answer is so immediate that Wriothesley almost kicks himself. No need to sound so eager. He isn't a teenager, he isn't a young adult; he is old enough to reign in whatever this is. "I—I mean, it's a... surprise?"

Not that Wriothesley thought it impossible. He's noticed that Neuvillette has allowed himself closer as of late but there is still a chasteness to it that spells friendship more than romantic interest.

Neuvillette clears his throat. "I had tried to be subtle about it, but Sedene—"

"Sedene?"

"—may have commented that I should be more blunt. Forgive me, Wriothesley. I am out of my depth." A laughable description. Wriothesley can't help but laugh which makes him feel bad as Neuvillette frowns. "If you don't," he continues, "return such platitudes—"

"I didn't say that." Neuvillette straightens in his chair as his eyes widen. Wriothesley rounds the edge of Neuvillette's desk, sitting on the edge of it. "Go on, try again."

"Wriothesley—"

"I promise I won't laugh." Much. There is something so endearing about Neuvillette's earnest attempt at flirting, despite how terrible he seems to be at it. But he's tried for... who knows how long? And he's still trying, even now, adjusting his habits to be more obvious.

Neuvillette stands from his chair and steps closer. He leans into Wriothesley's space smelling like ocean salt and sea breeze. "You said that one should not mix business and pleasure," he says. "Is that a rule or a suggestion?"

Too close, thinks Wriothesley for a second time since he stepped into this office. Not close enough, is the next thought that comes. Neuvillette threatens his space, face tilted toward him. "There are so few that I trust," muses Neuvillette. "And my instincts—ever since Focalors perished and I regained my birthright, I've found that they have all but taken over. I did not realize, Wriothesley, that friendship could also be enamorment."

Yeah. Wriothesley gets that, he understands. One night you go to bed thinking very fondly of a friend and then there's a moment when you realize that it isn't just fondness. It's something deeper and visceral that crawls through your being. He aches at the thought of it, at the way that he pines.

Wriothesley swallows and Neuvillette's eyes fall to where his throat bobs. He feels seen, cut open, entirely on display. Neuvillette reaches out and smooths his palm over the length of his shoulder, teasing the length of it. Then down, tracing the line of collarbone that peeks out from his collar.

"You know what I am," says Neuvillette then, straightening that collar, tugging at it until it's neat. A nervous tic. His fingers are hot, even through the fabric, setting Wriothelsey's nerves alight.

"Yeah."

"You know who I am."

"Yeah." Neuvillette has never hidden it. He leaves others to make their own assumptions, but with Wriothesley he has never lied. The Sovereign. A dragon of old, made of the water himself. Wriothesley loves it, the power that Neuvillette wields. He is a maker and destroyer who stands over those that usurped his lands. And Wriothesley isn't a religious man but he won't deny that he'd kneel before Neuvillette at the merest request.

Neuvillette cups his cheek, tilting Wriothesley's face towards his. He thumbs over the scar etched into Wriothesley's skin just under his eye, considering it. "And you've never once questioned it or been afraid."

"I like them," says Wriothesley. "Those bits of you."

Neuvillette's expression is so soft, so considerate. "So honest. You always wear a mask around others but with me, you've always been yourself. That is why I trust you, why I feel as though I never have to hide. So, in the spirit of candor—"

"Candor," mutters Wriothesley. "That's a word choice."

Neuvillette hums softly. His attention seems caught as he regards Wriothesley, pupils blown wide. "I must confess that I desire you in a way that belies all rational thought."

Heat flares in Wriothesley's gut. Weeks of dreams and torturous desires come crashing into him. His throat is dry as want blooms in his core. "I—you're supposed to be bad at flirting."

"Oh? Is it working then? Have I figured it out?"

"Neuvillette."

"I do rather enjoy you saying my name without such formality."

"Neuvillette."

Tendrils of power laze about in the air. Neuvillette's gaze is half-lidded and heady as he drags his thumb across Wriothesley's bottom lip. "I would like to kiss you," he says. "May I kiss you?"

"Yeah. I mean—yes." Wriothesley's face burns pink, heated and flushed.

Neuvillette's mouth opens and his tongue slips out, long and split at the tip. He dips forward and nuzzles Wriothesley's forehead, inhaling deeply. "Beloved," he mutters, tipping Wriothesley's face up until their mouths are inches apart. A pet name with weight—more weight than a fresh, potential relationship should have, but it feels right. Wriothesley doesn't squirm at hearing it, he leans in instead, desperate to be called something so sweet again.

It is abundantly clear that Neuvillette has never kissed another. He licks across Wriothesley's bottom lip with that forked tongue, tracing the length of it, testing the waters. And then their mouths meet, uncoordinated and messy.

Wriothesley laughs, guiding Neuvillette, tilting his face just so for better access. Everything slows. Neuvillette sighs against his mouth and pulls him closer, fingers curled into Wriothesley's vest. Wriothesley's hands find Neuvillette's waist, pulling at him until he settles between his thighs. It's languid and searching, teeth clacking together as they try to find a rhythm.

Neuvillette is the first to pull away. The palm that cradles Wriothesley's face moves to rest against the back of his neck. He thumbs across his pulse. "Here," he says. "I can hear your blood race; how quickly your heart beats." He kisses that soft spot, just underneath the jut of Wriothesley's jaw.

It isn't enough. Wriothesley's fingers sink into Neuvillette's hair. "Hey, that's—are you done? Kissing me?"

"No." Neuvillette nips at his neck before meeting his mouth again for another gentle kiss. "I find myself charmed by your taste. Tea and—"

"I don't need the details."

"I'll tell you nonetheless." Neuvillette's tongue flicks against Wriothesley's lips again, teasing the seam of them with that forked tip.

Cute. Adorable. Wriothesley's hands wander up and down Neuvillette's sides. "I lied earlier, by the way. I think that we should absolutely mix business and pleasure."

"Is that so?"

Wriothesley has been ruined. Neuvillette seems to be a quick learner and Wriothesley is determined to teach him everything that he knows. "I don't think I can drop off paperwork and not kiss you."

A nip at Wriothesley's mouth next, Neuvillette's fangs catching against it. It stings, like a jolt of Electro sliding down his spine. Wriothesley groans softly, chasing Neuvillette's mouth. "Just a few more."

"Work, Wriothesley."

"I make my own hours. You make your hours."

Neuvillette practically purrs at the thought. "Head over heels," he murmurs. "Isn't that the phrase?"

It's true. Wriothesley's face burns with heat and his heart skips a beat. He'd hoped, yes, but— "Again; aren't you supposed to be bad at this?"

Neuvillette's thumb trails his jawbone and then south across his neck, ghosting the scars there. "I wasn't joking. I am unpracticed. You, no doubt, will have more experience with this."

"I don't." And he doesn't—Wriothesley has had his trysts but nothing more. Quick fucks and heated words, but nothing that has ever bled into feelings. Certainly not like what's lodged itself deep in Wriothesley's being. "Also, that tongue—"

"Ah. I apologize—"

"Why? It's neat. Show me more."

Neuvillette tilts his face in a decidedly inhuman way. And that look—slightly pinched, caught between awe and affection. It steals Wriothesley's breath away and he wonders how it was that he missed Neuvillette's intentions. It's so clear now. Stupidly obvious.

His tongue slips out again to lick across Wriothesley's chin, wet and sloppy. Not sexy. The furthest from sexy and more childish. He didn't know that Neuvillette could be playful. Wriothesley cringes, pressing his palm against Neuvillette's mouth. "Gross."

"You weren't complaining a few moments ago." Wriothesley expects him to lick his palm next, but Neuvillette just kisses it sweetly. "Will you stay for more tea?"

"Tea? Or tea?"

Neuvillette laughs and kisses his knuckles next. "Which would you prefer?"

Both are good. And Neuvillette knows that judging by how his mouth curls into a quaint smile.