"I think you're in love," Sigewinne tells him.

Wriothesley stills and gives her a curious look. She barely returns it, turning his hand over to prod at his busted knuckles. "So," he says, drawing out the word long and slow, "when someone comes to you and tells you that they've been feeling fucking weird, that isn't the response they are looking for." A pause. Sigewinne hums as she digs into his bones, testing their bruising.

Wriothesley hisses, and then grunts. "No, listen to me," he continues. "You're always harping about how I never come in for my check-ups despite being one step away from a heart attack."

That gets her attention. Her gaze slides to him, and she gives Wriothesley a once over that makes his skin crawl. "I've never said that. Specifically. But you're getting older, and should be more careful."

Wriothesley rolls his eyes and doesn't warrant that with a response.

When he tries to pull his hand away, Sigewinne holds it firm with surprising strength. Right. That. Wriothesley knows better than to fight back, so he just sighs and gives in, letting her do her thing.

"You came to me complaining about minor chest discomfort—"

"I said pain."

"You said, and I quote: 'my chest has felt a little funny lately, like it's flipped upside down'. You've been having weird dreams, which you refused to describe, which means they are embarrassing, which further means they're probably of the wet sort."

Wriothesley cringes.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Sigewinne's smile softens. "Other symptoms: 'I'm distracted', 'I can't focus on work', 'My mind wanders'—"

"What if I'm stroking out? What if something's up with my blood pressure? What if—what are you doing?"

Sigewinne turns his palm face up and clamps her fingers around his wrist, thumb pressed to his pulse. She doesn't answer, head tilted as she feels it. Counts the beats and seconds that tick by. Then she clicks her tongue and says, "Just like before, your vitals seem fine."

"I'm telling you that something's off."

"And I'm telling you that you're in love."

Wriothesley's mouth snaps shut. His silence prompts her to look at him again, pulling his hand back into a position to pull Hydro across the back of it.

"Bruised," she murmurs. "Next time you should have Monsieur Neuvillette take a look at it."

Oh. Oh, that's what this is. Sigewinne's sticking her stupid face into his nonsense, talking about things she doesn't know.

"He wouldn't..."

"Fix it? Please. That man would bend over backwards and do a cartwheel if it meant fixing you."

"He would not."

Only he would. Wriothesley knows that, Sigewinne knows that, the entirety of Fontaine knows that by this point. They aren't subtle. They can't be, not with their whirlwind romance and propensity to make out in the dark corners of the Opera Epiclese.

He drags a hand down his face and lets out a morose groan, far too embarrassed to be talking about this.

"Would it be so bad?" asks Sigewinne. She drags Hydro over his knuckles, and the deep-seated ache that plagues them eases up.

"For me to go to Neuvillette? Sige—"

"For you to love him," she corrects.

"I..." His knee-jerk reaction is to say yes. Wriothesley doesn't deserve love, he's never thought that he'd—

But that's it, isn't it? He's never thought he'd had the chance of finding a partner, let alone snagging the whole damn Chief Justice. It's Neuvillette's fault too; he's the one who confessed to him first, even if his affections were, admittedly, misunderstood. Neuvillette is just bad at flirting.

Since, then, though, it's been sailing the smooth waters of figuring each other out, and Wriothesley finds himself swallowing it right up. They spend their breaks together. Neuvillette tries his tea, Wriothesley does his best to understand water, and at night they retire to do stupid, domestic things in each other's company. Kissing and wandering hands has turned into cooking and sharing clothing; into brushing out Neuvillette's hair, or washing Wriothesley's back.

It's comfort. Wriothesley will sink into his mattress and pull Neuvillette close, and he's slept better recently than he has in years, and—

Sigewinne is right. Wriothesley pulls at his face again, his newfound realization striking right through the meat of his chest.

Her expression turns sharp. "So you realize that I'm right."

"Sige, I think I'm having a heart attack."

"You are not."

"I'm light-headed. My chest aches."

"For your—" She pauses, her face crinkling. "For some reason, boyfriend doesn't seem to adequately describe Monsieur Neuvillette."

She's right about that, too. Neuvillette isn't just someone he's dating, or a mere partner, he's so much more than that. Wriothesley wants him in not just a visceral way, but in the way he'd want a husband—with all the bullshit, the good and the bad. Picnics on the beach under the sun, sharing food, petty arguments and the occasional night on the couch, growing old together until...

"I'm in love with him," he mutters against his palm.

"Oh good. I thought maybe you'd hit your head, but it seems to be working now."

"Sigewinne."

She huffs and sweeps one last bout of Hydro across his hand before dropping it. "Do you think that he doesn't feel the same?"

Wriothesley isn't sure. "He... doesn't quite grasp human feelings. He didn't know how to articulate his affections, so I thought he was just a little weird and awkward with friendships. Turns out he like liked me, and he just didn't..." He waves vaguely.

Sigewinne's lips part, and she thinks carefully about what she's about to say next. "He's laid a claim on you, you know. Just... his mark. Others can't see it, but we Melusines can. And don't give me that look—I don't think he knows he has. It's an instinctual thing, like when a cat rubs itself all over your leg. When you go and see him, you come back doused in his... energy."

That's... Wriothesley's cheeks burn, at that.

Sigewinne snorts. "I won't deny that certain activities don't lend to that in particular, but I'm not talking about—you know. Just in general. Monsieur Neuvillette is unconsciously rubbing himself all over you—"

"Nope," cuts in Wriothesley. "I'm not talking about this with you. That's worse. He isn't a cat, Sigewinne."

"No, but he is a dragon," she says dryly, "which I know you know. There isn't much of a difference." Then her voice softens. "For the record, this is a good thing, I think. You should enjoy it."

He should, but it's hard. Wriothesley isn't built for a happy ending. Still, the thought of it tugs his mouth into a smile.

"Also, ever heard of Broken Heart Syndrome? If you ignore it, you really could just keel over and think about the frenzy Meropide would be in if you died over as something as dumb as being in love."

Wriothesley laughs, feeling better. "I... thanks Sigewinne. Genuinely. We'll figure it out."

"I know you will," she says. "I'm here to make sure that you don't screw it up." Sigewinne gives him the rigmarole of caring for his hands, even though he already knows. She tries not to be nosy, but she's tittering, on the edge of her toes.

"I'll tell you someday," he says.

"Preferably before I get grandkids."

His brain stops at that. Before... "Grandkids?" Sigewinne is more akin to a wine aunt than a surrogate mother, even if she helped raise him here.

When Wriothesley looks, though, she's made herself scarce, slipping out of the infirmary with impressive stealth. A question for another day. For now, all he cares about is the warmth that seems ever-present in his chest, as of late.

Wriothesley feels stupid for not having recognized what it was before.