Tea & Paperwork

Head over Heels

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."