by the strange pull

Rains of Solace

Neuvillette shows up at Wriothesley's door, drenched in rainwater, seething in silent fury, and requests to have his hair brushed as a way to calm down.

--

Wriothelsey opens his door to find Neuvillette standing on the other side, drenched. He lacks his usual scent of ocean salt, doused in freshwater instead that drips to the concrete. Rain; it must be raining outside. Neuvillette isn't the type to get caught up in it.

Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry. Wriothesley thinks about this stupid nursery rhyme more than he'd like, but never before has it been standing at his door.

"Come here," he says without a second thought, pulling at Neuvillette's wrist and tugging him through the door. Wriothesley doesn't ask questions, he just guides Neuvillette's face into the crook of his neck. He kicks the door shut and drags his hand down Neuvillette's back. No questions, no demands. "Beloved," he says, stealing Neuvillette's preferred endearment, dropping his usual tease. "Whatever it is, it's okay."

It isn't; Wriothesley's alpha is displeased at Neuvillette's sour scent. It curdles his blood and stings his nose. It's his job to soothe him, to protect him, to—

No, no. Neuvillette isn't some weeping omega. It almost makes it worse, to see such a strong man so woefully desolate. Wriothesley itches to fix whatever it is.

Wriothesley pulls back and tilts Neuvillette's face up. His hair is tangled. Everything about him is a mess. Looks like he hasn't slept in days. Wriothesley thinks he hasn't seen such exhaustion on this man in years, maybe even a decade—not even in the aftermath of his accidental rut.

"Let's get you cleaned up, hm?" Distress wafts off of Neuvillette in waves but he nods against him. Wriothesley sighs, entirely at a loss, and leans forward to plant a kiss against Neuvillette's forehead.

It is clinical; Neuvillette goes through the motions as Wriothesley strips him and throws a towel over his shoulders. He steals a shirt from Wriothesley's closet and it hangs off his frame. Neuvillette pulls the collar to his nose and inhales, breathing in and out.

Any other time it'd make heat curl in Wriothesley's gut, instincts wild at seeing him buried in his clothing. But now, all he feels now is the acrid sting of inadequacy. Wriothesley cares a great deal for others, but this, he is unaccustomed to. Neuvillette isn't just one of his people, he is his partner, and Wriothesley's alpha craves to settle his nerves. He hears how Neuvillette's blood pulses, too quickly, rampaging through his veins.

But Wriothesley doesn't push, doesn't try to tip the scales. Neuvillette is deathly calm—the sort that can easily snap back. And even though he chose to come here, even though he breathes in Wriothesley's scent to calm his nerves, there is no knowing how his alpha would react.

Wriothesley has been there and dealt with those silent, raging instincts. His method of madness is duking it out in the ring. Neuvillette is quieter. Sterner. He'd never bloody his fists, not unless it was something truly unthinkable, or the intent was to roughhouse for pleasure.

He's about to peel away when Neuvillette's fingers wrap around his wrist. "A brush," he says. His voice is soft. Uneven. "Do you have one?"

"It isn't fancy like the one you have, I'm sure—"

"I would like for you to brush my hair."

Wriothesley stills at the request. Seems intimate. And not that they aren't—Celestia knows they've both transcended the ruse of two alphas having fun. It never was that but they held that initial boundary, hesitant in the beginning despite their interest. But Wriothesley knows what he wants. He looks at Neuvillette and thinks mate instead, and even his alpha agrees.