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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 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)

Well, that he can certainly do.

Wrathion squeezes Anduin's hand clasped in his, then withdraws just enough to sit more on the edge of the bed. He leans down to begin pulling off his boots, setting them aside and moving to stand.

"If warmth is what you desire, you've picked the right person."

He picks up his coat from the edge of the bed and re-folds it loosely, moving to set it away to one side then moving his boots closer and beginning to draw off his socks. He tucks them inside his footwear and then begins to carefully unlace his trousers.

"Do you have something I can tie my hair with?"

So it doesn't end up a horrendous tangle when he wakes. He didn't bring anything, since he wasn't actually expecting to sleep here.

Anduin watches as Wrathion leans forward to tug off his boots, his eyes lingering for perhaps a little too long, only managing to tear himself away once Wrathion begins to unlace his trousers.

"Ah, yes," he says, moving to push himself to stand and cross the room towards his bag. Anduin has long hair himself, and being taken to having it tied back more often than not, he's managed to acquire a number of ties for it over his time here.

"This should work," he says, producing one and padding back across the room to hand it to Wrathion.

He supposes he should get ready for bed as well. It isn't as though they have not gone through these motions any number of times before. But not to lie down together. Not like this. It adds a certain level of consciousness to every action he takes, where he might not otherwise be aware of himself.

Wrathion folds his trousers neatly and places them in the small pile with his coat and socks, turns to take the tie and begins finger combing it back.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and begins to twist hair back out of his face and tie it. "I'm afraid I didn't come... prepared for this."

You know. For staying the night and sleeping here. He tugs absently at his shirt, but given he just put it on he supposes he should... keep it on. Crossing over he sits on the edge of the bed, glancing over it then at Anduin.

"I am shocked," Anduin says, sounding more amused than anything. He steps back a little, towards his pack where it sits on the opposite wall, and begins to tug off his socks and starts unlacing his trousers as well. He'll never be able to sleep if he doesn't at least remove that much.

He glances over his shoulder, casting the flick of a smile in Wrathion's direction.

"You're fine," he reassures, gently. "It isn't as though you could have predicted I might ask." His smile quirks a little wider. "It isn't as though I was exactly sure that you'd agree."

Wrathion blinks at that, tilts his head and offers a faint smile in return.

"As has been established, I cannot deny you."

He leans back on his hands, watching Anduin curiously. He doesn't see any particular reason not to look, after all. If the man did not wish himself to be known he could easily have not undressed, and it seems like it would be a desire at odds with choosing to share a bed with him.

That, and... perhaps he'd like to see.

Those words again.

"So you have said."

Anduin's cheeks flush as he turns back toward his pack. He ducks his head slightly. He can feel the weight of Wrathion's eyes on him, and he does not need to look back over his shoulder to understand that he is still watching him. The thought of it sends an odd thrill of sensation through him. Also a little bit of nerves. They have undressed in the room with each other before, and he has always been aware of how difficult it's been not to watch Wrathion himself. But never the other way around. The idea of it is... New, but not unwelcome.

"How do your own 'family' accommodations compare, now that you have been allowed inside the house?" Anduin asks, understanding that he is making idle smalltalk but unable to stop himself, when the other option is to knowingly continue undressing in front of Wrathion without it.

With the added buffer of conversation, he's given himself enough courage to continue unlacing his trousers, then slipping them off to fold beside his pack. He hesitates for another fraction of a second before deciding he's already come this far, so he reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his shoulders, before crouching to dig around in his pack for his sleepshirt. This is normal, yes? Entirely normal...

It takes all Wrathion's considerable self control to stay put as Anduin begins to undress. His shirt is pulled over his head and Wrathion surveys the expanse of skin, the faint imperfections he can make out from this distance. Life has treated him unkindly, but Anduin is still quite the vision. He's seen him undress before, but never with the knowledge that he might be permitted to notice.

The thought makes his heart hammer.

"More relaxed than yours," he admits. "As it happens, several of my household have connections to yours. It appears I am not the only one making illicit excursions under cover of darkness."

He moves up the bed for something to do, carefully peeling back the blankets and situating himself on one side. He props himself up against the edge and tries to embody an air of insouciance, bare ankles crossed as he waits patiently.

It makes Anduin smile, as he reaches to pull his shirt out of his pack and slips it on over his head. The image of it -- perhaps a group of them together, sneaking around in the dark, trying to breach the fortress that Lan Wangji has made of this house. He doesn't need Wrathion to name him directly to understand exactly who has made this house so impenetrable.

"I don't suppose it would be very difficult at all to be more relaxed than this place," Anduin replies, turning back to Wrathion, amused.

His smile warms as he catches sight of Wrathion's position on the bed and he takes a few tentative steps forward, moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed beside him.

"Comfortable?" he asks, softly.

It's sometimes difficult to remember how quickly time passes for humans.

There was a time Anduin was much slighter, his shoulders less broad. A time he struggled to walk, weak from his long recovery. A time his hair was shorter, his eyes less shadowed, face less lined.

Now, as Anduin sits on the edge of the bed he's a young man. A king, carrying countless burdens.

Wrathion does not deserve such easy atonement, does not deserve the grace of this man's forgiveness. His gentle smile.

Oh, but he wants it anyway. He wants it, selfish to the last. Wants the soft tones of Anduin's voice, the soothing melody of his laugh, the affection in his light corrections. He feels like a desperate addict, eager to take anything he is offered. To hold on to anything Anduin will give him for the scant time they have together.

It will not be long before the lines in this young man's face deepen, before the colour in his hair fades.

"Quite," he says, and rips his gaze away from Anduin to idly explore the room. "This bed is suitable for me. I was wonder where you might sleep."

Joking. It's a joke.

Anduin rolls his eyes at that, reaching out a hand to give Wrathion's legs an affectionate shove.

"You will make room for me, you great beast," he replies with the huff of a laugh, crawling up the bed to settle himself at Wrathion's side. He takes a few moments to situate himself, crawling under the blankets and tugging them up to his waist before he turns toward Wrathion with a sheepish smile.

This is... Odd. It feels more than a little strange, to be tucked into bed with him like this. But not unwelcome. Certainly not.

"This bed is more than large enough for the pair of us to share, such as it is," he explains. "Besides. I distinctly remember the offer that you would keep me warm tonight. Or have you forgotten so quickly?"

Wrathion watches Anduin as he shoves at his legs, as he crawls up the bed and settles himself in -- drawing he blanket up over them both.

"I have not forgotten."

He considers Anduin a long moment, body frozen with the preternatural stillness of a predator waiting for the moment to strike, then slips sideways -- turns to straddle Anduin's legs so he can face him as they speak.

The skin of his bare calves presses against Anduin, and his pulse begins to race in anticipation. With Anduin laid out beneath him, something primal in him claws for freedom. For the right to possess this human, to sink his claws and teeth into his skin and hold on. He feels unsteady for a moment, but has enough practice by now to stay relatively cool on the surface. A slight tilt of his head gives away that he's thinking before he speaks again.

"I'll have to leave before your household wakes up," he says finally, "to give myself time to return to the farmhouse and change. If your curfew here persists, you might visit me occasionally. You'll be permitted through the front door there, at least."

Less sneaking involved. There's a long, tense pause before he moves again suddenly -- slips off Anduin and moves to lay himself down beside him.

Anduin's fairly sure he forgets how to breathe -- how to think -- as Wrathion's weight settles on top of him. As he registers the slide of Wrathion's bare skin against his own, and the knowledge that Wrathion is straddling him, he is actually straddling his lap.

He swallows thickly, tipping his head back to turn wide blue eyes up at Wrathion and doing his best to follow his train of thought, though he'll be honest, it's difficult at present and he only catches the gist of it. Visit Wrathion where he lives. Come in through the front door.

Wrathion seems to be waiting for something so he nods in the pause, unable to respond in any other way. It seems to be enough, as his companion slides off of him and moves to lay down at his side. Anduin wonders, staying exactly as he is for another long moment, whether Wrathion would invite him to stay in his household himself. Whether he'd be welcome there, in Wrathion's bed. Whether they will come to regret this invitation and never have another again.

He moves to lie down himself, shifting after a moment to turn towards Wrathion. They are close enough, the movement causes his foot to brush accidentally against Wrathion's underneath the blankets, and Anduin hesitates a moment before deciding to keep it there. He is warm...

"I would like that," Anduin says, at last, once he has regained enough of himself to formulate coherent thought. "It sounds... Peaceful, there. The farmhouse." Perhaps some of it will rub off on him, while he is there. Or perhaps he will continue to be as much of a mess as he finds himself here in this moment, now.

Wrathion turns just enough to study Anduin, the pale blue of his eyes. This close, he could easily roll himself right into the man's embrace.

He doesn't know if he should. He doesn't know what would happen if he did.

"We get our own visitors," Wrathion admits. "Villagers come seeking gifts."

Is that better than seeking advice? He couldn't say. They linger often, making small talk expectantly. Wrathion has no patience for it.

His heart is hammering.

The closeness is... having an effect.

He turns away again, gestures to the room's lamp and the flame snuffs itself out leaving only the faint red glow from his eyes. He's not... certain that is helping the way he hoped it might.

"Seeking gifts," Anduin repeats, watching as Wrathion turns away to gesture the lamp to snuff itself out, the room consequently plunging itself into darkness, until the only light they are left with is the ambient glow of the moon outside the window -- and Wrathion's eyes.

He had meant to ask just what these people expected for them to give as gifts, all things considered. But the thought dies on his lips, along with the snuffing of the lamp.

Anduin offers Wrathion a soft, self-conscious smile, as a silence passes between the pair of them. Lying there together, in the quiet, in the dark, Anduin is uncomfortably aware of Wrathion's presence there in the bed with him. Is it better, or worse, that they are not quite touching yet? Should they be? Would Wrathion prefer to keep his space? Then again, with that moment right before he had laid down, Anduin has to wonder...

Taking in a breath and gathering his courage, Anduin shifts forward on the bed, closing something of the distance between them, reaching a hand out to tentatively rest on Wrathion's waist.

"Well then," he says, his lips quirking up in a tentative smile, "perhaps I shall number myself among them. Come to visit your farmhouse, seeking gifts of my own."

His heart hammers faster as Anduin's hand finds his waist, anxiety racing over his skin.

"Anything you want," he says, without even really thinking about it. It doesn't matter. There's nothing he wouldn't offer Anduin. Shuffling a little closer himself, he slides one of his hands to rest on Anduin's waist in turn. The fingers tighten into place one by one with exaggerated care, as if testing a limit.

Then, emboldened, he closes the rest of the distance -- tightens his whole arm around Anduin and buries his face into the man's shoulder. The contact feels electric, exciting, but at the same time a relief. A thread of tension being cut, although his body is still tense regardless. Relaxation is still a process, something he needs to settle into.

Anduin's eyes widen in surprise, as Wrathion goes from hesitantly resting his own hand on Anduin's waist, tightening his fingers in place, to suddenly drawing his whole arm around him.

It's the same, slightly too-tight grip that Wrathion had had in their embrace before. As if there might be a part of Wrathion that still can't quite believe he has been given this permission, or thinks it might be taken away. It wrenches at Anduin's heart, and any further witty remarks about the gift-giving he might have tried to attempt (and fail) are left forgotten as his focus turns toward the press of Wrathion's face against his shoulder and the clutch of his fingers in the back of his shirt.

Anduin gently adjusts his own grip on Wrathion himself, sliding his hand to brace against his back and simply holding him there. His own heart is beating a little too fast, but he tries to keep his breathing slow and steady, aiming for calm reassurance.

"What I want," Anduin says, voice low and soft, "is for you to know that I am here for you too. My door, or -- window," there is a smile in his voice at that, "is always open to you. I hope that you find as much comfort in that as I do in you. And," he adds, tightening his own grip for a moment, "for you to get some decent rest, at least one of these days."

He makes a low, grumbling sound of protest. Obviously, he doesn't need support. He's a dragon.

Still, it is nice to have.

Given the scratches on his back, it is not exactly comfortable to be held this way, yet Wrathion finds there is a certain... reassurance in it regardless. In the feel of Anduin, the race of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his scent.

He feels lulled despite himself, grip slowly loosening as he settles and the exhaustion takes over.

"You should rest too," he manages, and squirms just a little to get himself more comfortable.

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