The chilly night air brushed the silvery strands on Moulin's forehead while the warm candlelight glazed over his smooth, pale skin. Moulin sighs when a warm hand tenderly cradles his cheek.
"It's late..." Moulin whispers to Hadrian, who sat beside him. The mattress dips from their weight.
"The meeting took longer than I thought." The High Lord reasons. His hair had become loose. A bit damp.
Moulin assessed his lover's features meticulously. He must have hurried here after a bath. The man didn't even bother to fully dry his hair.
With a faint smile, Moulin stood up to fetch a dry towel. He orders Hadrian to sit still while he stood in front of him to dry his hair. The soft towel rubs gently on the older man's scalp, making sure to absorb the last bit of moisture. The setting feels domestic and humble. Like a wife caring for her unruly husband in their ordinary home.
"More like looking after a child," Moulin mutters unconciously.