The subtle change in Essek's scent as arousal hits him earns a soft, tightly restrained groan from Percy and his arm tightens around his husband. He wants to bury his face against Essek's neck and bury his cock--

He takes a sharper breath, trying to get a hold of himself as Essek murmurs his question. Is he? Percival has never really kept track of them. He doesn't know if it's something in his history or his transformative curse or something else, but his ruts have been irregular in general. He tries to think of when he had his last one - not very long after he and Essek married, very early days. He'd sequestered himself and, given the lack of stimulation, it had passed relatively quickly. That had been that. He shivers.

"I--I don't know," he confesses, forcing the words out. "They've never been all that predictable."

Percy resists the urge to nuzzle into Essek's hair. He knows how his husband feels about public displays and he's always respected that, but he can't--He forces himself to stand straight, putting five or six inches between his face and Essek's skin and hair.

"It's possible," he admits. "Likely, even? I hadn't thought--"

He thought he'd have more time. Or he hadn't been thinking of it at all, which is possibly worse. Percy makes himself smile.

"I'm fine," he assures, though he suspects it isn't nearly as convincing as he'd like it to be.