Work Text:
Maybe it’s the tightness around his eyes, or the way he’s clenching his jaw. William’s not the doctor, he doesn’t know what minute signs give him away. But Victor looks at him almost the same way he assesses corpses on the battlefield, trying to flay away the layers of flesh just with his eyes, and whatever he sees makes his face soften. “William,” he says, voice gentle. “Come here.” He pats the bed beside him. “Sit.”
“I have things to do,” William tries. It’s true-–there’s still so much, all sorts of things to attend to-–
“Come here,” Victor repeats, and his eyes are warm and his hand is beckoning and William, as always, obeys.
He perches on the bed, but evidently that’s not settled enough for his brother. Victor reaches, grabs his waist, pulls. Even after being bed-bound for months, his arms are still strong enough to tug William where he wants him. Evidently, that’s leaning up against the headboard, snug against Victor’s side.
It almost feels like breaking a rule; they haven’t been this close since they were children, except in glancing hugs and shoulder-claps. But Victor is deliciously warm, the bed so soft, and William can’t help sighing and slumping into the contact. Delightfully, Victor slings an arm around his shoulders, and William’s able to inch even closer.
“What’s made you so stressed?” Victor asks, voice still that same soft, gentle tone.
“I don’t want to worry you,” William mutters.
“None of that nonsense.” Victor jostles him. “Tell me.”
William opens his mouth, and it starts small, “Elizabeth and I had a fight about the napkins.” Somehow, this becomes, “The wedding is going to be more expensive than I planned,” and, “The solicitors are asking about Harlander,” and, “I’m still working, did you know that? Every day I send letters to the firm-–”
“--I’m so tired,” William says, voice cracking the barest bit, “I’m so very tired. Is this how you felt?”
Victor huffs an almost-laugh, replies, “I sincerely hope not.” He reaches up, begins rubbing soothing circles on William’s scalp. It will disturb his curls from their carefully-pomaded pile, but William can’t find it in himself to care. “Poor thing. You’ve been running yourself ragged, haven’t you?”
Victor’s concern should sting–it’s not as if he’s bothered himself about what William’s been up to before this. Certainly, he didn’t seem to notice all the strain he was putting on his little brother’s shoulders while building the tower. But the fingers carding through William’s hair are gentle, and he can’t find the energy to raise his ire.
“Perhaps,” he admits, and hastens to add, “I don’t begrudge taking care of you. I–-” He presses his lips together, then allows, “I like being able to do things for you,” to slip out.
“And you’ve done so well,” Victor replies. His voice is gently teasing when he adds, “There’s no better nursemaid in all of Europe.”
It might be a jest, but it warms William’s heart anyway. He can’t help his bashful smile, the way his feet knock together in pleasure. “Ah, I try.”
“But you really should be taking some time for yourself,” Victor adds, softly admonishing. “If you were just attending to me, perhaps that would be one thing, but you’re going to expire if you keep pushing like this.”
“There is no time,” William protests.
“There’s always time.” Victor gives him a gentle shake. “Doctor’s orders, my little runt. You must find a way to relax.”
With a snort, William replies, “Then my doctor is going to be sorely disappointed.”
“Don’t sass the expert,” and Victor shakes him again, only slightly less gently. “What, do you need me to teach you?”
William laughs. “How to relax?”
“Yes,” and there’s something to Victor’s tone that makes William turn and look. His brother is staring intently again, as if William’s one of his corpses, ready to be taken apart. It makes him shiver, anticipation–for what? For something, surely–trembling up his spine.
Licking suddenly dry lips, William breathes, “Perhaps. Perhaps I… I do need that.”
“Hm.” Victor’s hand tightens in his hair for a bare second, just enough to make William gasp. Then his brother is letting him go, tugging at him again. “Lay back.”
William goes, wriggling his way down the pillows. He’s sure he must look ridiculous, but Victor keeps that steady, intent look on his face. “Perfect,” his brother hums, sending warmth fissioning through William’s skin, and reaches out to cup his cheek. “Just lie quietly for me, hm?”
That, William can do, especially when Victor’s strong hands slide down his face to his neck, his shoulders, massaging at the tight knots of tension he’s been holding in the muscle. Victor’s fingers dip under his collar, undoing his cravat and then his shirt, and William can’t help the quiet groan as warm hands skate over his skin.
“There we go,” Victor whispers. “Just like that.”
The room is quiet, the only noise Victor’s breathing and the soft little sounds his hands wring out of William’s throat.
William feels like he’s floating. Victor’s hands move lower, skating across his chest, massaging his pectorals, and warmth follows everywhere they go. It builds, and builds, as Victor’s fingers play over a nipple and wander over his ribs. Dimly, William thinks they should stop-–is this something brothers do?--but it feels so good, and Victor is looking at him, eyes gentle but still so, so intent.
“Please,” William says, “s'il te plait,” and doesn’t know what he’s asking for.
“I have you,” Victor murmurs back in French. “I have you, cherie.”
Warmth blooms over William’s skin, through his limbs, and he barely recognizes the high, reedy moan that slips out of his mouth.
“Yes,” and Victor sounds almost hungry, “You make such lovely noises.”
“Please,” and William’s felt this warmth before, but never so urgently, never so sweetly, never with Victor hanging over him with eyes so bright. The light haloes his dark curls, and for a moment, it’s someone else holding William, someone he’s never met, and it cracks out of him, “Maman. Please.”
He should feel embarrassed, he knows–-
Victor’s pupils dilate, and he presses a swift, hard kiss to William’s forehead. Against his skin, “Say it again.”
William forgets what he should do, can only hope to please Victor instead. “Maman,” he says, and his brother shakes and clutches him tight.
“Again,” Victor orders.
William noses against his neck, presses it like a kiss into the skin, “Maman.”
“Such a good boy,” Victor breathes into his curls, and William could fly.
Victor pulls his hands down William’s stomach, bringing the simmering warmth to a boil. William can’t help but twist, arching his back into Victor’s touch, hands fisting in the bed sheets. Vaguely, he’s aware that he’s hard, has been hard, and he should–he should–
“So pretty,” Victor hums. He reaches lower, cups William’s aching cock, and asks sweetly, “Is this for me?”
Of course it’s for Victor, William thinks fuzzily. Everything. Anything. It’s always for Victor. “Please,” he gasps, “oh please, Maman.”
“Oh, you ask so nicely.” Victor’s clever fingers take only a moment to open William’s pants, and then he has him in hand, skin almost burning to the touch. “And my good boy deserves to feel nice, hm?”
The first stroke undoes him. There was something he needed to stop, he knows, but he can’t think, can hardly coordinate himself to breathe. He’s barely managed a gasp before it’s happening again, and again. Victor sets a fast pace, and William can only hang on to the sheets and writhe to meet it.
“Sing for me, cherie,” Victor croons, and William becomes aware that’s got his jaw locked tight, one last bastion against the waves of heat rocking through his body.
It takes two tries to open his mouth, and then he can’t stop, can only whine and whimper and moan, shaking apart. He’s dimly aware of kisses pressed into his hair, of Victor’s other hand stroking soothing circles on his skin. Victor, Victor, Victor, over and around him, dark eyes sparkling.
The warmth writhes, peaks, as Victor does something twisting with his clever surgeon’s fingers, changes the angle just so. “Oh,” William cries, “oh, oh, oh–” It feels so good, he almost needs to escape it.
“Let go, little one,” and Victor noses at his cheek, pressing featherlight kisses to his eyelids. “You can do it. For me, hm?”
Always, always for Victor. The heat washes over him, and William comes apart with a strangled gasp, mouth parting in a panting wet circle.
He becomes aware of himself only in pieces. Here, his hands still tangled in the sheets. There, Victor wiping the mess off his stomach. The heaviness of his eyelids. The soft cadence of French, as Victor murmurs, “So good. So good, William. There, don’t you feel better, now?”
“Hn,” William manages, and turns his head into the pillow and the steady warmth of Victor’s shoulder.
His brother huffs out a little laugh, and reaches down to tug off William’s shoes. “Yes, alright, you stay here tonight.”
There’s something William needs to do, he knows. He can feel it, niggling at the back of his brain. But Victor pulls the covers over them both, throws a heavy arm over his chest, and he can’t be bothered to remember what it is.
For now, William follows doctor’s orders, and lets himself rest.