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WHO: Wrathion, Anduin
WHEN: Late Feb - Early March
WHERE: Ke-Waihu, the house of the old village wise man
WHAT: Curses, scratches, and aches
WARNINGS: Wrathion will likely scandalously take his shirt off so Anduin can see what he's healing. Or not healing, as the case may be. There may be disgusting hand contact. There is definitely UST.

In Ke-Waihu, the darkness at night is thick, the silence as heavy as a blanket muffling everything around them.

Wrathion finds it both reassuring and a source of unease. He hears nothing coming, yet neither is there a gentle hum of activity to mask his own movements.

In truth, he should not be out in the dark at all. He should be in his own assigned home, sticking to their cover story. Yet he has grown... accustomed to Anduin's close company, and the scratches that recently appeared on his skin have begun to bother him.

He simply wants him to examine them. As a healer. That's all it is. He isn't thinking about anything else. Not the union ceremony Anduin got swept up in, not the prospect of the Beastmaster being here, not the sick unease he feels wondering if he should leave in case something happens. If he should leave Anduin behind, for his own safety.

Not Anduin's gentle sympathy as they traversed the forest, chased by fleeting visions of Azeroth taunting them with something they could not have.

Not the reminder of how he had faced down Fahrad, devoid of a way to save him as the whispers twisted his mind.

Wrathion feels... strange. He cannot say he has ever particularly been troubled to only have himself for company, yet in the inky darkness here his own thoughts feel... loud somehow. The rooms he stands in feel big, and he feels uncommonly ill at ease.

He sends Anduin a simple message:

I'm outside.

Then waits to be let in, a ghost lurking around the window of Anduin's room in the wiseman's old abode. It seems fitting Anduin has been placed here, since he seems well suited to resolving disputes and giving advice. Then again, he'd likely been enjoying the respite -- or what limited respite he had.

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Anduin almost laughs that that is Wrathion's first takeaway.

"I suppose that is true," he agrees. The fox-brides did not seem all that keen on sharing, after all. He watches Wrathion furrowing his brow in contemplation of this fact, his own eyes widening as realization dawns.

"Wait," he says, shifting his hand on Wrathion's and searching back in his memory for what Wrathion had said, then further for his conversation with Hermione. "Wait, I. Hermione told me that she hadn't given the fox spirit your name."

Unlike Anduin himself...

"That's true," he agrees. "She told me the same, that she only gave a description."

He sits back a little, guiding Anduin's hand to drop from his chest so he can gently envelope it between his own and idly continue rubbing at his aching hands.

"Perhaps you could duel to the death," he offers, as blandly as he can manage. "That might be entertaining. How adept are you against casters?"

It's a joke. He's just having fun. It's nice to be... wanted.

Anduin's eyes follow Wrathion, as he moves to sit back and take his hand back between his own. It's only when Wrathion mentions dueling that Anduin fully grasps the fact that he is being teased, a healthy flush of color starting to spread its way up his neck and across his cheeks as he flusters.

"To the death," Anduin replies, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Could we not set the stakes a bit lower? Not that I do not appreciate your flair for the dramatic, but I do quite like Hermione and I would rather not be forced to commit murder in your name, if it's all the same to you."

A joke as well, but in between the lines, a subtle signal to Wrathion of his intentions.

"You wouldn't kill for me?" he prompts, tilting his head a little as his thumbs idly work over Anduin's hand. "I suppose it is not in your nature, not the way it is mine."

Wrathion is well aware he has blood on his hands, enough to stain them permanently. There is no washing it out, at this stage, no diluting it and pretending it isn't there.

He is what he is.

Eyes dropping, Wrathion turns Anduin's hand over gently, running his thumbs along the back of it.

"I'd kill for you," he admits, "but I don't think you'd ask me to. Even if you ran out of other options. You're not the kind of person who'd ask."

He'd be the one making the other, the one dragging replies from Anduin to get his confirmation that he needed it done. It's never good to guess, after all. Guessing someone should be killed is how lethal mistakes are made.

Anduin frowns slightly at that.

Not in your nature. Not the way it is mine.

Wrathion is right, of course. He would never ask, even if he knows that Wrathion would be willing to step up to the task. That is besides the point. Never mind that it makes Anduin uncomfortable for any such acts of violence to be committed. Wrathion is not a tool, to be weaponized in such a way. Certainly not on his behalf.

Anduin looks down to where Wrathion is now running his thumbs over the backs of his hands.

"I did not say that," Anduin says, after a long moment. "You are far too important to me, Wrathion, for me to draw any such line in the sand. But I think... I know that you would not truly ask such a thing of me, either." He flicks a smile back up at Wrathion. "We both know each other far too well for that."

"I would not ask it of you," Wrathion agrees. "I'd rather any blood be on my own hands, not yours."

He squeezes Anduin's hand gently, lifts his eyes again. He feels oddly vulnerable, still devoid of his shirt as they discuss this. Unarmoured, exposed. His gaze flickers over Anduin's face thoughtfully, trying to read nuance.

"And what would the King of Stormwind and the Alliance do, were he to win the right to this prize?"

Anduin raises his eyebrows at the question, uncertain whether Weathion is asking him a serious question or not, and therefore, whether or not to give him a serious answer in return.

Although, referring to himself as a prize. He can't help the crooked smile that twists its way across his lips at that. Nor the heat that rises once again to his cheeks as he considers his reply.

"Well," he says. "Since the King of Stormwind would have gone through all that effort... I would like to think that there would be some reward for him in it. Wouldn't you?"

Ah.

Well.

... Reward?

Wrathion squints, trying to process this. Is Anduin being... suggestive? Not that he is -- opposed, exactly, it's just he had assumed this process would be... slower? That there would be... more to talk about, first? Or, well --

"Is the right to the Black Prince's hand not reward enough?"

A hesitant question. Wasn't that the point of this fictional duel?

Anduin realizes as soon as Wrathion starts to look at him like that, that he may or may not have misread this question. Squinting is not usually the desired outcome of flirtation, after all.

"Oh. Well. It is," Anduin says, dropping his gaze back down to his hand, where it rests in Wrathion's. Wrathion's own hesitation is making him feel almost shy, after going out on a limb to then fall so far off the mark.

"A reward, I mean. My apologies, I. Did not mean to imply otherwise, if. That is what you had thought." Not that -- this is a fictional betrothal, after all. But, the point still stands.

Somehow, that doesn't feel quite as convincing as it should do. Wrathion frowns a little, eyes dropping down to Anduin's hands.

Reality feels as if it's slowly closing in.

It was a flight of fancy, of course, but nothing that could ever be reality. The High King of the Alliance and a Black Dragon? That would be too much. People would talk, question how much he was manipulating him. Anduin has an image to maintain. The good, Light-blessed Priest. The son of Varian Wrynn.

This can be nothing serious.

"Of course," he says softly, and gently squeezes Anduin's hand. "I understand."

Somehow, Anduin's attempts to fix things seem to have only made the matter worse. He doesn't know or understand quite how. But he can feel Wrathion's energy begin to drop, and glancing up at his face, spots the frown that spreads across it.

"Wrathion," he says, shifting to squeeze his fingers in the effort to catch his attention once more. Searching his face for some sign of what might have put that frown there as he digs back through everything he's just said for some sort of clue.

"Forgive me, I. Have spent so much time, keeping these things to myself, I fear I am not as good at expressing them as I would hope to be. I..." He wets his lips, nervously, before continuing. "I gave the spirit your name for a reason, you know. I understand we are only joking about the idea of such a duel for your hand, but. I... Would fight for you, I hope you know that."

He wants to believe that.

He does.

Yet the frown doesn't shift from his brow, even as his fingers flex around Anduin's.

"Even if Genn advised you against it?" That's an easy one to guess, after all. He doesn't need to see into the timeways to know what Genn Greymane would think. "Even if Jaina asked how you could trust me again? Even if Tyrande, Baine, everyone who attended the trial in Pandaria asked you when my trial would be for freeing Garrosh Hellscream?"

Anduin can feel his heart twist in his chest as Wrathion's fingers tighten around his. In response to how earnestly he asks those questions. The look on his face as he does. As though they may have been weighing on his mind for some time now.

He understands that the response he gives in this moment matters. Not that he doesn't always try to at least give some thought to his conversations, but this...

"Genn and Jaina will always have their own opinions of what is best for me," Anduin says, softly. "But my heart is my own, as are my decisions. You have made mistakes." He squeezes Wrathion's fingers gently, to soften his words, as he continues, "But they do not define you. You have also done Azeroth a great service. We would be in a very poor place indeed, without your bravery. I would remind them of that."

And then remind them that he is King of Stormwind, if all else fails. But he'd certainly start with the rest of it first.

Mistakes.

Just because you have hurt me does not mean that I do not still care for you, Wrathion.

He did hurt Anduin, though.

He did.

He caused... so much pain.

As much as Wrathion craves Anduin's forgiveness -- craved Anduin's forgiveness, he supposes -- even having it he knows is only the beginning of the battle here. There are many others who still need to accept him, and that process will be... slow. It may never truly resolve in Anduin's lifetime.

It wouldn't do for the Grand Alliance to fall apart over something like this.

As much as he'd selfishly like to keep Anduin to himself. To spirit him away from his troubles, kidnap him in the family tradition. For them to live quietly together, to go on adventures. For Anduin to be away from the stress of war and politics, to live a life of indulgence with him where their most difficult decision is where to travel to next --

Anduin would not be happy. He's a worrier. As much as he claims he would be firm, would push back, it would hurt him. Any happiness they had would be mixed with more pain. His burdens would not truly be shed, and the guilt would eat him alive.

It isn't a problem yet, at least.

Not yet.

Not here.

Not until they return, if they return.

If they return together. If they remember.

"Well," he says finally, "Genn and Jaina are not here -- but I am."

He pushes back the unease, gives in to the urge to lean forward until their foreheads touch and lets his eyes slip closed.

His pulse races unreasonably fast, and one hand slips free to gently rest on Anduin's side. Perhaps they will never truly have what they dream of but they could have this, they could have this and it could be enough. It could be.

"I am here," Wrathion repeats, "for you."

Anduin can feel his own pulse pick up a little, as Wrathion leans forward to tip their foreheads against one another, and he has to shut his eyes as Wrathion's hand comes to rest against his side. As Wrathion says that.

I am here for you.

He doesn't know why exactly it hits him so hard. As hard as it does. Perhaps because, in the back of his mind, he understands that it is what he has needed for some time now. Genn and Jaina have always done their best to look out for him. They have also done their best to try and better him, to make them into who they imagine he could be, and in recent days, on top of everything else...

Genn and Jaina are not here. Even if they were, Anduin would handle them. They are important people in his life. But so is Wrathion. He has to wonder whether Wrathion understands just how much, quite yet.

"You are," he says, softly, trying to keep his voice steadier than he feels himself just then. "You have been my strength these past few months, in this strange new land. I know it may not mean much, coming from someone such as myself, but. I will always fight for you."

Always.

Always is quite some time.

Wrathion very carefully shifts his hand from where it's resting on Anduin's waist, arm sliding around him to secure the priest in place.

"That," he murmurs, "is quite the promise."

Always.

Anxiety crawls under his skin, yet Wrathion equally feels a possessive urge to hang on to Anduin as firmly as possible -- to keep him.

His body feels as if it's thrumming with tension, with anticipation -- although he could not say what for. He feels exhausted, yet also somehow flooded with adrenaline. Too much of his skin is still bared to Anduin's hands, but he doesn't want to release his grip on the man to pull a shirt back on.

His chest aches, and the mass of conflicting urges and sensations only ticks his anxiety slowly higher.

A smile spreads its way slowly across Anduin's lips as Wrathion shifts his hand -- not to pull away, but to secure him further in place.

"I believe that you are worth it," Anduin says softly, as he moves to tentatively raise the hand that Wrathion does not still have clutched in his own and places it on Wrathion's chest. If he could not feel his companion's heart racing before he certainly can now.

There is a part of Anduin that dearly wishes to take advantage of their current closeness. It would be so easy, foreheads pressed against each other as they are, to simply close that distance between them. With Wrathion's heartbeat thundering underneath his palm, however, he wonders if his partner is quite ready for that. With Wrathion's fingers clutched as tightly as they have been around his own...

Anduin forces himself to pull back slightly, enough so that he has the space to look at Wrathion and think again. He offers him a soft smile.

"Need I remind you, I have already put you to the test here. Capturing Rigarda, then again at the lighthouse. As I have made myself my own dangerous enemy in the Merchant, you have stood by my side. Let me stand by yours."

Anduin draws back, and the space is enough for Wrathion to begin to breathe a little easier. There's still tension in him, though, enough that there's a slight tremor to his hand as he flexes his fingers into Anduin's shirt.

"I believe," he says softly, "that you are a fool."

His fingers flex tighter into the fabric, holding him there regardless.

"But I would not object to the support."

He hesitates, tongue running over his teeth as he thinks, then lifts their joined hands -- gently presses a kiss to the back of Anduin's. It feels... forward, but he has to do something. He has to make sure he understands, somehow.

"Thank you."

Another slow smile spreads its way across Anduin's face, in response to the gesture. It's soft, gentle. Wrathion has obviously never done a thing like this in his life. But he is doing it for Anduin himself, and that means something.

"You are most welcome," Anduin says, softly. His fingers curl slightly where they rest against Wrathion's chest and he strokes his thumb back and forth for a moment before tapping them gently against his bare skin.

"Not that I object, by any means," he says, a bit self-consciously. "But you are welcome to put your shirt back on. If you are getting cold."

"Dragons do not feel cold."

Said near enough reflexively. He swallows, manages to let go of Anduin and reach for the shirt anyway -- now self-conscious himself.

"Forgive me, I was -- waiting for the cuts to dry, as you instructed."

After he bathed them. Which was... a little bit ago now but, then he became... distracted.

He didn't really mean to sit around shirtless, it just... happened. Anduin regularly manages to make Wrathion's mind drift. It's a talent.

Anduin regrets the contact almost immediately, as Wrathion releases him. Though he takes the opportunity as Wrathion is pre-occupied with his shirt to shift and set the bowl of water aside, before they accidentally spill it all over the bed somehow.

"It's alright," Anduin says, turning back to Wrathion with a smile. "I am sorry I could not do more to heal them. I can help you keep them clean and bandaged, if they do get any worse."

He hesitates for a moment longer, before continuing to hesitantly ask, "Will you stay tonight? It's late, and I. Would rather that you stayed. If only for tonight."

Stay.

Wrathion regards Anduin warily, adjusting his shirt. The dissonance of being asked to re-dress and then to stay gives him pause. What is the meaning of it? What manner of quality is it Anduin seeks?

"If that is what you wish of me," he allows. "It seems I am unable to deny you."

Whatever it is Anduin wants, Wrathion will give.

A little thrill of warmth goes through Anduin at those words, and Anduin thinks it is perhaps for the best that Wrathion has put his shirt back on, for all that he does miss being able to see, to touch his bare skin.

It seems I am unable to deny you.

His cheeks coloring slightly, Anduin offers him a smile in return.

"Well then," he replies. "In that case, yes. I would like it very much. I am hardly about to send you out my window into the dark, in the middle of the night. And besides..."

He flicks Wrathion another self-conscious smile. "You have shared your warm bed with me before. Now, it is my turn."

Ah.

The bed.

Wrathion lets his eyes run over it, thoughtful. Something in him finds the idea appealing, the concept of being so close to Anduin. Of curling up in the sheets with him, falling asleep tangled with him.

If he could even sleep under those circumstances. The thought of it is already making his heart race.

"You're certain?" he prompts. This somehow feels more... real than sharing blankets on the floor of the house they'd occupied in Taravast. He hesitates, then adds, "I don't doubt you've noticed I'm a restless sleeper."

He'd prefer to pretend otherwise, but by this point Anduin had to know.

Anduin reaches to place a gentle hand on Wrathion's arm, offering an equally gentle smile at Wrathion's hesitation.

"I will be fine," he reassures. "This bed is really quite comfortable, for the spare room of an empty house. And with you here with me to keep me warm? I am sure I will sleep better than I have in months."

He really has no way of knowing that, in truth. He will likely be very self-conscious of himself, at least at first. He is already quite self-conscious of himself now. But he is also equally certain that this is what he wants.

If he can just keep him here with him, for this one night. Come what may. It will not be enough, it will never be enough. But it will have been something.

Edited 2022-03-21 14:30 (UTC)

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