Work Text
Truth be told, Neuvillette cannot think of the last time he considered Valentine's Day to be something more than an over-commercialized slog meant to sell cards and candy.
It may have been a slightly bitter sentiment. Neuvillette wasn’t exactly dating anyone, and though single by choice, the holiday can sting regardless of that. A little bit. A smidgen.
So when Navia asks him, “Do you and Wriothesley have any plans for tonight?”, Neuvillette genuinely does not know how to respond.
He blinks slowly. His lips part, words coming as a struggle, which prompts Navia to give him an amused look.
“You didn’t even think about it, did you?”
“I—well, it’s not as though I am in the
habit
of doing so.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“I don’t need a holiday to profess my undying love and care for Wriothesley.”
Navia scoffs. “Of course, you don’t
need
one. That isn’t even the point.”
“Correct. The point is corporate capitalization and the consumerization of supposed romantic feelings, and then some. If anything, the day after should preferable, what with the candy sales and all.”
Navia gives him a flat, deadpan look. “Truly a romantic, aren’t you?” Her tone is as dry as the Sumeru desert.
“And you’re one to talk?” Neuvillette shoots back coolly. “Tell me, Miss Navia, do
you
have plans?”
Navia’s mouth curves into a smile. “Actually, yes, if you must know. Clorinde and I have decided to get coffee.”
Neuvillette is surprised. She and Clorinde have managed to tolerate each other’s presence in light of his relationship with Wriothesley, but as far as he knew, it was still incredibly awkward between them. Perhaps they’ve finally talked. Coffee is a good start—as long as Navia lets it be. She is stubborn to a fault and, from what little he knows, the entire reason they broke up to begin with.
“I wish you the best, then,” he says, genuinely meaning it. “Really, Navia, you deserve… to fix things. If that is what you wish.”
“Enough about me,” she cuts in, changing the awkward subject. “You and Wriothesley—”
“Have nothing planned, nor do we need as such. How would today be different from any other day?”
“Gods, you really don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?”
Neuvillette takes mild offense to that, his mouth tilted into a frown. Before he can retort, though, his phone chirps from where it sits on his desk. They both look at it. There are only two people who text him, and Navia is right there.
“You going to get that?” she asks.
Neuvillette reaches out, sighing, unlocking his phone with a flick of his thumb.
[Wriothesley] >> so you, me, and dinner at Hotel Debord for Valentine’s tonight?
[Wriothesley] >> i can call in a favor and grab a reservation
Oh. Warmth fills Neuvillette’s chest at the thought of it. It’s a small gesture, nothing particularly fancy. But Wriothesley thought of it, and that is…c
“That look on your face.” Navia hums, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Maybe I was wrong. You love the romanticism.”
“It isn’t…” Neuvillette clears his throat. “I merely enjoy the fact that Wriothesley wishes to make plans. It is very sweet of him.”
“Plans like?”
“Dinner tonight at Hotel Debord.” Neuvillette sighs. “Which I cannot make. There is too much work, Navia.”
“Ugh, I know. My coffee date is over lunch, and it’s going to be cut short, I just know it. With all the after trial paperwork, tonight’s going to be a nightmare.”
[Neuvillette] >> I have to politely decline. I have a trial that will last until the evening.
It aches to type that out, but work is work, and Neuvillette knows that Wriothesley will, at least, understand.
Wriothesley’s response is quick.
[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart don’t play heart to get.
A soft grin splits Neuvillette’s face in half. It’s a tease, a stupid pun, but it warms him all the same. Wriothesley has a tendency to lean into bad flirting, courtesy of Neuvillette’s ill-structured attempts.
[Wriothesley] >> how about i cook us something at your place instead?
[Neuvilllette] >> That sounds wonderful. I can heartly wait.
[Wriothesley] >> you got it sweetheart. i love you a latte.
Suddenly, the day doesn’t seem so weighted. Neuvillette has a lot of mind-numbing work ahead of him, but as he sits at his desk, he thinks about the warm meal he’ll go home to, and Wriothesley’s loving attention.
Navia leans against his desk, arms crossed over her chest. “Say, is that the tie that Wriothesley got you a while back? The one you complained to me about?”
Neuvillette looks down. The orange abomination.
Yes, yes it is.
He hadn’t been thinking much about the holiday that morning when getting dressed, but he
had
thought it might be nice to wear the gift that Wriothesley got him. And Wriothesley was, annoyingly, correct—the orange silk
does
pair well with the navy shirt that he wears.
“I just thought it would be nice to wear it at least once.”
Navia hums and pulls out her phone. Neuvillette knows there isn’t a use in stopping her, so he just sighs, and begins to file through paperwork as she takes a tilted selfie with him in the background.
“Do you have to send him that?”
“Of course.”
Neuvillette rubs his face. “He’s going to very smug about it.”
“Yep,” replies Navia, complete with a smack of her lips. “But really, it’s sweet that you wore it. I think he should know.”
Wriothesley would see it when he gets home, but Neuvillette doesn’t point this out, just lets Navia do as she wishes. And then, moments later, Neuvillette’s phone chirps again.
[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart you actually wore it???
[Wriothesley] >> does that mean you finally see the a-peel in it?
Neuvillette groans. But he also smiles, a soft little thing behind his palm. Wriothesley is ridiculous, but he wouldn’t ask for anything else. No,
no,
Neuvillette loves this part of him.
[Neuvillette] >> I would not go that far. But, I will admit that I do think of you when wearing it.
He can imagine the look on Wriothesley’s face, that half-smile quirk of his lips. Neuvillette wants to be out of here, wants to go to that damn dinner, but he can’t. Work and duty calls.
Navia still leans against his desk. “I can cover for you later, you know. Some of these files will be fine after the hearing, and it can wait until Monday.”
She’s probably right. “I’ll consider it,” he tells her, setting his phone aside.
#
The hearing runs late, the first day of the trial drags on, and those files definitely cannot wait until the next Monday.
Neuvillette and Navia burn the oil far later into the night than they want, enough so that he doesn’t even make it back home until after eleven. He texted Wriothesley, who responded that he’d wait as long as needed. Doesn’t change the anxiety wracking Neuvillette’s being as he slips through the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
This is why he’s never entertained relationships—the long hours, the late nights, the rare weekends off. Neuvillette has never minded working so much, but now that he’s with Wriothesley, his packed schedules have become an unwanted barrier.
And Wriothesley, sweet, handsome Wriothesley, has been so utterly patient. He seems entirely unbothered, working around Neuvillette’s schedule with few bones to pick. As evidenced by this night. Neuvillette toes off his shoes and pulls his tie loose before padding through his town home.
It’s dark. The kitchen light is off, and though it still smells like food, Wriothesley already cleaned up and put everything away. On the counter is a small vase with a singular rose inside. A card, embossed, Wriothesley’s barely legible scrawl penned across it.
Soup’s in the fridge. Make sure you heat it up, okay? Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.
Neuvillette is no longer hungry. He thumbs the edge of the card, standing there in the quiet kitchen, annoyed at himself, even though he had no choice. Wriothesley cooked for him,
them.
It was supposed to be romantic, it was supposed to be—
Where
is
Wriothesley? Neuvillette knows, though. It’s past eleven, which means Wriothesley is likely asleep. Neuvillette himself would be asleep on a regular night, they’d be tucked into bed together like the old men they are. Neuvillette sighs softly before setting the card back down onto the counter.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs. He has the entire weekend off, thanks to Navia’s forward-thinking, so tomorrow Neuvillette will make it up to him.
He’s quiet as he shuffles through his home, pulling the tie—Wriothesley’s tie—free from his neck. A ridiculous color, but one that many complimented him on.
In the bedroom, the lights are off. The television is on, muted, casting shadows against the wall. Wriothesley is in bed as expected, the blanket trapped around his waist, snoring softly against his pillow. Oh, what a sight. Not particularly flattering, but Neuvillette loves it, loves this domestic side, loves how Wriothesley fills his sheets, belonging there.
He doesn’t even fully undress, just shucks off his trousers, his socks, and waistcoat. Neuvillette undoes the topmost buttons of his shirt, and even though it’s his nice silk, even through it’ll definitely wrinkle, and the thought of him still being covered in his day irks him, Neuvillette peels the covers back to slip underneath them.
Neuvillette can change later after he dozes. He shuffles close, pressing against Wriothesley’s back, hooking an arm around his waist. Wriothesley likes being the small spoon, and he sighs, softly, murmuring Neuvillette’s name in a sleepy haze.
“Beloved,” Neuvillette whispers, pressing his nose against Wriothesley’s nape, “I’m home. I’m sorry I’m late.”
This is the only place in which Wriothesley is a heavy sleeper. Clorinde told him that once, surprised when Neuvillette admitted to her that Wriothesley sleeps like the dead. Apparently he does not, never really has, prone to shocking awake at the barest hint of sound.
But in their bed, in their home, Wriothesley is so comfortable that he slips deep, tugged into a true and honest rest. Even as Neuvillette snuggles against his back, he barely moves, just leans against him instinctively.
This, thinks Neuvillette, is what he prefers. This is the sort of thing that should be celebrated on Valentine’s Day; not chocolates and candies, or silly little cards with charming puns. Wriothesley’s note was handwritten onto the back of one of Neuvillette’s business cards, stolen from his office, crumpled at one corner. He knew that Neuvillette wouldn’t want a damn bouquet, so Wriothesley stole a rose from the neighbor’s bush, and shoved it into an old wine decanter he found stashed in the cupboards.
It’s stupidly romantic. Neuvillette worries that he doesn’t deserve this, but—
ah, no he does.
He has to be better about that. Wriothesley picked him, so it would be
rude
to imply that decision was wrong. No,
no,
they both deserve this stupid, easy bliss, and the way that they fit together so perfectly.
A little later, Wriothesley stirs.
“Hmmh?”
he hums, twisting in Neuvillette’s grip, thumbing at Neuvillette’s wrist bone from where it’s slung around his waist.
“Tomorrow,” mutters Neuvillette, half dozing. “I took the weekend off. Let’s have breakfast tomorrow. And lunch. And dinner. I want all the things.” The romancing, the wining and dining, the whole nine-yards. He wants to feel cherished, wants to lavish in Wriothesley’s care.
Wriothesley chuckles, a soft sound swallowed by the pillow. “As you wish, sweetheart,” he says, tugging Neuvillette’s hand to his mouth for a kiss.
A good way to end a very late night. Neuvillette sleeps soundly, despite his irritating day, leeching the warmth of his beloved partner.