just as you are

These Dulcet Years

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?"