Chapter Text
When Wriothesley walks out of the building, the formerly gathered grey clouds that let the sun through while they had been sitting on the couch have now started pouring rain again. Even the sky weeps with them; the drying tears from Wriothesley’s cheeks are washed away in an instant. Standing in the paced, continuous drizzle, he cannot move. There are only two doors between him and the person he has deemed as his friend – the one who decided to suffer alone.
As much as Wriothesley knows that he left for Neuvillette, he cannot stop asking himself if complying was the right choice. He can’t say if it would be this way in the opposite case – if he was the one making the same request. Him taking his leave was to respect a decision… But also to ignore the primal instincts in the depths of his heart.
And there is no way back now.
Wriothesley sighs and closes his eyes for a long moment – meanwhile, the rain soaks his hair, making his unruly strands lay damp on his forehead – but all he can see instead of the pitch black darkness is the raw, unhidden suffering, displayed on Neuvillette, tormenting, pulling his expression in ways that he would not want anyone to see.
It only makes it worse that Wriothesley knows just how much the dancer tried to hide it all – and how much he failed to win that battle against himself.
He can’t help but glance up; Wriothesley doesn’t have to think which window belongs to Neuvillette’s apartment. He left the lights on after turning it up for the letter reading; despite the colour’s warmness coming from inside, Wriothesley knows just how cold it is to be in the room now, all alone.
Wishing deeply, from the bottom of his heart, that there would be a way for him to go back, or to be able to offer any kind of comfort, Wriothesley takes one last glance at the window and walks away. He knows, that no matter how much he would love any of these to happen, his wishes are futile.
Turning his back to the building and strolling towards the subway feels like one of the worst and hardest things he has ever done in his life.
His head empty (aside from the many memories, all filled with long white hair, a hand he was trusted to hold, and raw pain on someone he would never want to see in such a way), barely realising when he arrives home, Wriothesley just cannot stand the emptiness in his room so he grabs his gym bag and heads back out into the rain. His clothes are so soaked at this point – the second walk from the closest subway station towards his flat in the waterfall-like rain doing its job – that he doesn’t even try to put on a dry change because he knows he would end up the same way during his half-jogging hurry to the gym.
His bag is thankfully waterproof: Wriothesley pats himself dry with a towel then takes on his dry gym gear before he heads out to the main area. As much as the emptiness of his room filled him with restless anxiety, as much as his thoughts and heart were left many subway stops away, on the couch next to the person who is dear to him, Wriothesley still cannot stop seeing Neuvillette’s expression in his mind. And the gym’s familiar space, where they had met many times before, only makes it worse. Much worse.
Thankfully, on a Sunday early evening, the gym is mostly empty – considering his morning workout, the past and the upcoming weeks, Wriothesley halts halfway towards the treadmills and uncaring of who is able to see him, he sighs and rubs his face. He really, really shouldn’t push himself more than his body allows him – Neuvillette’s words from last week echo in his mind:
‘I’m not the best person to speak of this and I know you’re aware already… But if you’d like to keep continuing your sport, for whatever reason you have, then sometimes taking a step back and resting is the best you can do for yourself, even if it means a missed training session. I wouldn’t imagine your work ethic is ever in question.’
Helplessness is a feeling Wriothesley is very much familiar with as he has lived with it for many years in his childhood – technically, even now, things are much more out of his control than he would like to. Still, his life is his own and his decisions have been bringing consecutive results. However…
It is not his place to pry. He is unqualified to help. But Wriothesley wishes, so much so that it breaks his heart, that Neuvillette wouldn’t need to suffer as he is doing now.
Sports injuries are cruel: one day you are a champion, and the next day you’re told that you can be happy if you can still walk on your own. This is an unspoken, deep fear that everyone who lives from their body may fight (or at least consider) at one point – they all just hope it won’t be them. If a person trains and tries to find the limits of a human vessel, setbacks inevitably happen: this differentiates between those who can overcome and those who cannot.
Sometimes, it is a question of resilience, willpower, and strength.
And sometimes, it is nothing more than the presence or absence of luck.
If Wriothesley hadn’t known Neuvillette, he would have dared to think that, maybe, the dancer’s state was due to the uncertainty that always comes after getting hurt. That it would be the depression and grief of the suddenly lost ability and the thought of the upcoming, long wait that leads to a comeback. If it were anyone else, Wriothesley wouldn’t question why an injured person can hit rock bottom like this. If only it would be…
But it is Neuvillette.
With every little detail that Wriothesley has learnt and seen about the dancer’s career and well-being, and with the unwavering strength of Neuvillette that the boxer has witnessed, he just cannot imagine there isn’t more into it. Wriothesley wishes the last performance wasn’t Neuvillette’s last ever – as long as this is also what he wants to do.
And… With the letter and the little mentions of Neuvillette’s past…
Wriothesley is not someone to throw guesses around, he is not one who would simply think about a person’s matters for his own entertainment or curiosity. He could have, and he still could read into Neuvillette’s past if he would like to – but he would never do this. Whatever had happened to him, Wriothesley only wants to know if Neuvillette ever deems his story to be told, and the boxer worthy enough to hear it.
Wriothesley just wishes, that… He could help. Anyhow.
The image of Neuvillette breaking down, his shoulders shaking, and his muffled sobs being audible even through the closed door constricts Wriothesley’s throat. He almost wishes he could scream – if one thing could ever motivate him and give him a reason to be, then that is to help.
To just… Not let others suffer like he did. To do his best, so those who face the world with kindness and hard work will get their rewards, even if it’s just something small on the big scale of things – let it be a gesture when he helps the cleaning lady in the gym, or when he buys groceries for the old grandma in the house next to his building.
Wriothesley knows: despite his best efforts, he is barely hanging onto a signed contract and no matter how much he has tried, he is tied to people he cannot simply skip and turn his back on. He may be a free man ever since he sat down his sentence in prison, but he has never been truly free in his life so far. He can only hope that this day is yet to come – as soon as he fulfils his half of the contract.
He is a sinner – no matter what he has done, even if it was an accident, Wriothesley knows that his father’s death is on him. If only his sister didn’t scream, even his mother’s blood would be on his hands. A part of him wishes this could have happened – but she got the justice she deserved from the government: they only needed a seventeen-year-old child to attempt murder to get to this point…
No matter how much good he does, Wriothesley thinks, there must be a way so that he can find a sort of meaning in his life.
A task, a duty, that will allow him to help others. The luck that his sister screamed and that he got beaten, his arm broken, allowed him to not spend too much time in prison – his father’s actions led him to fall into his own demise. No matter how undeserved, Fortuna stood by him… And Wriothesley knows, he believes, that if there is one reason why he must be strong now, then it is so those whom he cares about can be protected – as he had cared about his siblings – and that those who are innocent could never get hurt. Not again. Not when he is around.
There may be only two people on this Earth who let Wriothesley closer and who gave him some trust, who turned towards him with kindness, understanding, and a lack of judgement. His relationship with Sigewinne may be halfway professional, but it’s not even to question, Wriothesley would do his utter best to go to her aid, whenever she needs it. He takes her as a person who would ask for help when needed. But Neuvillette…
For minutes now, standing in the almost empty gym, frozen in place, there is no comfort in his inadequacy: Wriothesley would do anything Neuvillette asks him: he would bet his life that his genuine offer would never, ever get used out. Wriothesley believes in this, he believes in Neuvillette, unshakably... But there is nothing he can do now – and it is maddening.
The thought of Neuvillette choosing to break down alone – as much as Wriothesley would truly understand the reason why the dancer made this decision – has done something irreparable to his heart. Something that will never be the same as now worry fills up the cracks –worry that grew on the soil of...
If he had any sliver of doubt about just how much Neuvillette matters to him… Now Wriothesley knows that there is none: it is needless to deny how much he cares and loves Neuvillette – even if the depth of his feelings will be kept locked away in the bottom of his heart, sunken like a shipwreck, down in the endless glutton of the ocean.
Wriothesley would go to the end of the world, for this wonderfully kind and gentle man he loves, as long as he can – and he could never imagine a scenario where Neuvillette would ask him to do this out of a bad cause, with intentions coming from any place but the best. The person who puts anything and everything (and everyone) in front of himself to the point that he brushes the margins of self-harm, despite preaching about caring for oneself…
Trust’s denouement is the freedom that decisions can be placed upon another – and they will stand tall and strong against the current they endure.
The realization stabs Wriothesley in the heart: he cares, he loves, and he trusts.
He does because Neuvillette is a person good enough – the best Wriothesley knows – and because he dares to do so. Even though there are things that maybe Neuvillette will never tell him… But Wriothesley knows enough already that nothing of this matters.
For the first time in his life since his reality at the ripe age of eight shattered when he found his sister’s body in the trash, Wriothesley can name a person he would dare to trust his life on. Not like his life would matter that much – but for now, this is all he has. His life, and the potential to do something good in this world. To have a reason to fight and get stronger – not for himself, but for others. And if there is one person Wriohtesley would trust with all of this… Then it is Neuvillette, undoubtedly.
All he hopes is that maybe, one day, Neuvillette will deem him – or anyone else – trustworthy enough that he dares to fail and fall with the belief that a pair of arms will be waiting to catch him. To catch, to hold, to… Hug. To…
A sight so deep comes out of his lungs, that Wriothesley feels his soul leave with the air; he resigns and turns away from the treadmills. Pushing himself would do no good – no matter how sweet the burn and pain would feel at the moment, redirecting his attention from the ache and agony of his heart.
If the few people around give him strange looks, then Wriothesley doesn’t notice them at all. He strolls to the stationary bikes – he could never forget which one he saw Neuvillette using before. All of those in the row should be the exact same brand and size, as per usual, the metrics being adjustable, Wriothesley sits on the one that would be next to the bike that Neuvillette used. He feels pathetic, almost like never before.
Glancing over the empty space next to him, resigning that he will never forget the sorrowful sight and the weight of a hand in his own, nor the featherlight touches on his scarred skin, Wriothesley bikes. Brainlessly. Zoned out. He pedals on a lighter setting, just to do something. To get his muscles tired, to let his body feel heavy and drag him to sleep as soon as he sheds the wet clothes once he is home – the storm not forgiving on his way back, the skies fighting all night above Fontaine.
Before Wriothesley opts for his bed, the last thing he does is to send a message: just typing it up and pressing the button to deliver it before he can change his mind. He makes sure his phone is in a loud setting so he would wake up in case of a call – even though he knows that the chance of this happening is slimmer than anything else. Still…
To: Neuvillette; Sun, Nov 19th, 11:13 PM
Please, if I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to contact me. I wish you the best.
Monday morning greets Wriothesley with the sound of his alarm – when he slides the notification away to turn off the annoying noise that the device has to offer for this purpose, the lack of any new messages sinks deeply into his heart.
There is a feeling that Wriothesley didn’t really have to consider ever since his father’s death and his mother’s imprisonment, one that he couldn’t comprehend fully last night – and it is worrying for others.
‘Have I done my best…?’
Inadequacy – as if he could have done more and would have been allowed to do more – slowly chews on his insides while Wriothesley is getting ready for the new training week. Thankfully, his choice to just tire himself out on the bike was the right one to make; aside from the exhaustion and the slight overtraining-induced soreness in his muscles, he feels fine. He knows he should consider himself lucky for this.
His commute to his club is uneventful; Wriothesley opts for a protein shake at home and he takes a little detour to the bakery to buy some freshly made sources of carbs that can keep him going. Neuvillette may have wanted him away yesterday – but Wriothesley is willing to go back, anytime. However, one thing is for sure, he knows: he can only take care of others if, at first, he has managed to take care of himself.
During his time at the underground ring, he has counted calories and macros religiously enough that with familiar brands, portions, and his overall knowledge, on the usual days, Wriothesley is able to keep track of his diet without much fuss. At the level of his sport, this is already a skill that some other athletes could kill for – but planning and strategising have never been hard tasks for him. Before matches and weigh-ins, he still must count the calories and maybe dehydrate himself so he certainly doesn’t fail the weight requirement – but this is just a cardinal, unavoidable part of boxing.
With a rough estimate, after the way too few calories he got yesterday as he might have forgotten to even eat dinner after his biking session, among other things, Wriothesley enjoys a sweet, jam-filled puff pastry while he walks the majority of the way to his club. The rain on and off still drizzles and the gathered grey clouds indicate it won’t be any time soon when this stops…
With a sigh, a last check on his phone, and the now empty paper bag of the sweet pastry, Wriothesley crosses the road to the box club’s building and he pretends that his thoughts are a hundred-percent at where they have to be – he does so until his act becomes his reality. With his phone in his locker, Wriothesley thinks of nothing but the loose thread on the boxing bag that he punches to a metaphorical death during the majority of the morning practice.
By the time their lunch break comes, Wriothesley’s shirt is drenched in sweat and he might have a very cold expression on because even Tartaglia only waves at him from a distance, deciding to skip on nagging him today. Considering their last encounter and the almost warm friendliness there at the end, it crosses Wriothesley’s mind that having privacy is the kind of mercy his clubmate is giving him now.
Left to his own devices, of course, he can’t help but think about Neuvillette – he does, as soon the whistle blows and the practice stops.
As their coach dismisses them, Wriothesley is constructing a message in his head while he’s walking to the lockers – because may he be damned, but he must send at least a light inquiry to Neuvillette’s way. Just something short to show that he… Cares.
Even though in the past, Wriothesley had trouble with his clubmates, ever since his streak of wins and the ‘incident’ with the black car that led to one of them leaving after Ayato’s intervention, thankfully, everyone stayed out of his way. Now, he gets a few cold looks as he’s marching towards his locker, uncharacteristically impolite, but no one dares to stop him. Wriothesley’s fists and the number of K.O.s he finishes matches with gave him a reputation which is good enough.
With the message almost fully formed in his head, Wriothesley pulls up his phone, but a new notification of a formerly received message greets him first:
From: Neuvillette; Mon, Nov 20th, 10:56 AM
Thank you for everything. Please, forgive me for the way our meeting ended.
It takes Wriothesley’s two-decade honed self-discipline to not punch the wall to deal with a burst of emotions he feels (he would hurt his hand), to not text back his deepest thoughts right away (he is not ready and he thinks, neither is Neuvillette, nor will he ever be), and to not get the afternoon off with a bad excuse of sickness (because he would rather offer the dancer whatever he can help with or to bring him another meal – or maybe he would just do without asking, even if he just places the food onto the doorstep and leaves).
This time, it takes Wriothesley two minutes to write his reply:
To: Neuvillette; Mon, Nov 20th, 12:07 PM
There is nothing you have to apologise for. Take care of yourself, please; I truly hope you can rest and feel better soon! I don’t have practice matches this week so I finish at 4:30 PM every day. I can come by if you’d like that to happen, okay? I’m free and I’m happy to lend you a hand, Friend.
Wriothesley sends the message before he can rethink it one more time – his words can be taken in multiple ways, but he doesn’t mind. Moreso… He would lend a hand to help carrying whatever – let it be a letter, a bag of groceries, or a takeout meal. But also… He would lend a hand for Neuvillette to hold – and he wouldn’t want to let go.
He would lend a whole arm, even two, to wrap around the person he loves so dearly because the urge to just give Neuvillette a hug didn’t subdue at all. Wriothesley would offer everything and anything that words now can’t – as long as the dancer would like to take any of it. If only he would…
With his clubmates (thankfully) still ignoring him, Wriothesley throws himself down to the most private bench that their locker room has to offer as he opens up an incredibly calorie-dense, protein-packed oat bar of a newly formed brand: Ayato got him a sponsor in exchange for that he is willing to answer a few questions about his diet and the products in an upcoming email interview.
Considering all – the price of the bars, their good taste, excellent nutritional value, and convenient packaging and portability – a written interview is a very low sum to pay. Wriothesley takes a bite of a flavour he had tried and liked before… Yet, today it tastes like dust. His mind wanders about the nutrition, but much sooner than he’d like to (sooner than his poor heart could truly take), his thoughts are back at the family-owned restaurant, replaying Neuvillette’s words about the benefits and possible protein content of different soups.
His phone’s buzzing shakes him out of his miserable daydream: to Wriothesley’s biggest surprise and joy, it’s already a reply from Neuvillette.
From: Neuvillette; Mon, Nov 20th, 12:12 PM
Dear Friend, your kindness yesterday touched me a lot even if I failed to show it properly; please, accept my heartfelt gratitude for everything you’ve done for me. I have a few appointments to attend these days and I believe I can progress with everything on my own – but your offer is noted and appreciated. I had a little spare time these past hours and I could use a topic that’s less of a reminder at the moment: I read into some of the facts about tea that you talked about at the beginning. Your knowledge on the topic is fascinating and I hope that one day, within different circumstances, you can tell me more about the types of teas you enjoy. Maybe we can even try out a few versions together. I wish you a successful training day!
Wriothesley reads the message twice to just believe it’s truly there – he sees that Neuvillette tries, and he does oh-so-hard. After a very short reply that he will text more once he’s free for the day, Wriothesley finishes his eight hundred calories worth ‘meal’ and goes back to the widely hated Monday special with the happiest heart he has had in the past few days.
Monday and Tuesday mostly fly away in the blink of an eye – when Wriothesley is not at training, on the mandatory medical check-up (and light scolding session because he has overworked himself a little), or when he’s not sleeping, then he spends most of his time texting Neuvillette.
Their conversations are the highlight of both days. Wriothesley learns tiny details about the dancer as their conversation goes from tea to beverages and hydration (water must be mentioned, of course), and then they somehow end up on the topic of daily habits and free time activities – as if any of them has ever had much of this.
It turns out that as much as Neuvillette would prefer to only drink spring water, he does take a cup of coffee a day, even if a lowly caffeinated version – because he needs anything and everything that can help to make it to the ballet studio on time in the morning. In his words, he is ‘not exactly a morning person,’ but Neuvillette likes to see the sunrise. (Although the dancer texts with carefully chosen ways, Wriothesley picks up the tone that he is likely not sleeping enough and it’s not his decision but a ‘must’ to be up that early.)
Wriothesley also learns that Neuvillette prefers to include a smaller walk into his morning warmup routine – and that he is always the first to arrive at the studio because he’s religious about his routine which allows him to face a long day of rehearsals after the ballet class they all usually take together in the morning. He also gets to know (as if it’d be something new) that Neuvillette is very tidy and he likes to have a clean order amongst his things – having seen the neatness of his apartment and how put-together Neuvillette has always been, Wriothesley could hardly imagine it otherwise.
Monday evening as Wriothesley is mostly free, set aside a quick evening stretching session, their chains of texts only stop (before an eventual ‘Good night, sleep well’ message that the boxer can barely comprehend – because how can this be real) when Neuvillette writes him early in the evening that he has to be away for a while. He doesn’t mention if this is an appointment with a doctor or a physical therapist or Archons know with whom, but he comes back in around two hours and their conversation continues until a Neuvillette says goodbye in a way that is Wriothesley’s first ever to receive in his life.
The same disappearance (that takes somewhat longer this time) repeats on Tuesday evening as well.
From: Neuvillette; Tue, Nov 21st, 7:47 PM
I reread your last messages and forgive me for not replying to this any sooner. Thank you for telling me about your career! Your way into boxing and your current standing in the professional sport is admirable, considering you started out with this at an older age, not as a child like many others do. If you’re up to it, then I’d love to hear your stories and your opinion on the current tournament – I caught a rebroadcast of a few matches on TV last night and I have to say, I’m left with a few contradictory thoughts regarding the audience’s behaviour. It must be hard to focus when people actively cheer against you – yet, you still could turn the tides and leave with another win; I applaud you.
Forgive me if this is an inadequate way of saying thank you, but I appreciated your company last night – and as long as I’m not hindering your progress and keeping you up, please know that it’d be my pleasure to keep up with our conversation. Having these all said, I apologise but this evening has been a little heavy on me and likely I will just make an attempt at sleeping once I’m home – I know you’re nodding along with this part of my idea. I just wanted to let you know that my absence or late replies may only stem from this reason.
Tomorrow in the afternoon I will have my ‘furry friend’ over for a little while – as much as it’s not expected from me this time, I’d like to get some fresh air and take Mademoiselle along for a very short walk. You might have seen the lake near my building: it’s a very short route with plenty of benches around. I know my place doesn’t fall on your way back home and I wouldn’t like to inconvenience you with extra travel time, but if you are up to it then you’d be very much welcome to join us for a short time – unless the skies decide otherwise.
This is my goodbye for the day; I hope your evening has been lovely. Good night, Wriothesley.
One day… One day in the very near future, Wriothesley thinks, Neuvillette is truly going to be the death of him.
The image of the dancer holding back his tears and trying to stay strong to not accept help emerges in Wriothesley’s mind; he knows Neuvillette’s texting style enough at this point to catch on that the dancer is far from being fine. As much as a part of him hates the idea, he hopes that whatever medication Neuvillette may take to help himself sleep, it will do its job and allow him to truly rest this time. One doesn’t have to be a detective to catch the contradictory tiny details about how sleep is something Neuvillette has never really been doing enough – Wriothesley can only imagine the pain, the physical and mental agony, that hinders one of the most important and basic things that an athlete should always prioritise.
Helplessness – because he can’t do anything but hope that Neuvillette is going to be okay – burns; Wriothesley texts back as quickly as he can:
To: Neuvillette; Tue, Nov 21st, 7:53 PM
Thank you for letting me know about your absence – please, take care of yourself, I hope you can have a restful night! I’d love to join you tomorrow; I can be there around 5 PM at the soonest, may the subway be on time. We can talk later – now, I wish you too a good night. Rest well, Neuvillette.
He doesn’t get a reply… And Wriothesley only hopes this means that Neuvillette is at home and resting. Healing. The city is still full of ballet posters – now as Wriothesley is more accustomed to this form of art, he notices more and more, even with a different set of dancers. He learnt from Sigewinne during a regular check-up just yesterday, that a theatre and a ballet company often have a smaller group of the highest-ranking dancers who take up the same leading role on different dates – but this still can mean one, or more than one performance per day for a single dancer during the peak of the season.
Even though he didn’t specifically read after Neuvillette – as he never does – but Wriothesley does read the news sometimes and he is waking with open eyes: yet nothing suggested that the well-advertised holiday performance would get cancelled, or Neuvillette would get replaced in these. Asking the dancer about his future is something Wriothesley doesn’t do – Neuvillette has been clear enough where the line is about the inquiries of his well-being, so… Wriothesley hopes. Even if it’s futile and dumb.
And tomorrow afternoon cannot come fast enough.
After a fairly bad night – falling asleep with so many thoughts in his head about his dear friend and his future matches didn’t help – Wriothesley feels lucky that their coach pushes them hard on Wednesday: time flies away in a rather fast-paced manner. He doesn’t have time to text more throughout the day and Neuvillette knows – their conversation, with a wordless agreement, is considered ‘to be continued’.
When the end of the training session is finally announced, uncharacteristically, Wriothesley is the first to leave the training zone next to the ring and head to the locker room’s showers. Tartaglia has been keeping his distance these days – now Wriothesley sees the look on the younger boxer which pisses him off: he knows that the redhead has a very good guess about just why he would be in a hurry like he is now.
But Wriothesley doesn’t waste time on a conversation. Practically, he washes away the day’s sweat and dries his hair in the fastest possible way so he doesn’t fear getting a cold outside; he still thinks he is able to reach the next subway without needing to wait for the one that comes ten minutes afterwards.
Thankfully the day’s training and his last conversation with Ayato about the upcoming matches’ opponents give Wriothesley a lot to think about; before he knows it, the subway has already arrived at the stop where he has to get off to get to Neuvillette’s place. As per their previous agreement, he leaves Neuvillette a short message once he is only a walk away, and then Wriothesley faces the many flights of stairs that this stop has here. For the elderly and the disabled, there’s a single elevator to use: Wriothesley cannot walk past it without thinking how Neuvillette must have been forced to use this if he were to go somewhere with the subway these days. ‘If he could even,’ the additional thought creeps in.
From his text messages, Wriothesley could decipher that his friend has been doing somewhat better – not like the way he left him on Sunday puts the scale too high to begin with. Rather the opposite. Wriothesley wonders if Neuvillette has ever been doing worse than that.
No amount of biking on the past few days could Wriothesley make forget the last sight of Neuvillette he got to witness; he only realises how tense his shoulders are when he takes a deep breath at the top of the stairs, the fresh air outside filling up his lungs and offering sweet release.
No matter how many times he turns the thoughts in his head, Wriothesley can’t deny anymore that he cares. He loves. But being new to these feelings at age twenty-eight, in the middle of hoping to fulfil a contract to avoid facing homelessness and the endless bureaucracy and denied opportunities… A sigh coming from the bottom of his soul leaves his mouth. It’s one thing to try to get his life on track, to finally escape the remnants of his past… And it’s another to get involved with other humans.
He majorly lacks the so-called ‘normal’ experiences of human relationships – which doesn’t make it easier to know what to do now. Wriothesley is sure of one thing: whatever he does, he can’t, and he won’t hurt Neuvillette. Ever. Even if respecting a line the other sets means breaking his own heart.
The late November weather is kind today; at this hour, with the evening being close, the street lights are already on as the sun is long gone now. Despite all, the sky is clear, aside from a few clouds – and today even the winds are rather kind. Wriothesley wears the jacket he once lent to Neuvillette on top of a cosy sweater; having changed his more athletic sneakers to a pair of leather boots also provides enough warmth. His ears are a little cold, but overall, he is still fine with the temperature – he wonders if Neuvillette is going to be, considering the dancer already wore a scarf and warmer-looking clothes a month ago when they met.
As he walks, Wriothesley is so deep in the mixture of his thoughts that only the motion of a lightly waved hand gets him out of the depths of his mind. Just outside of the building he almost reached now, there stands Neuvillette: with a cane and the end of the leash of a very obediently sitting Mademoiselle by his ankle in his right hand, he waves his left at Wriothesley.
Neuvillette wears a thicker-looking woollen coat than what Wriothesley saw on him before – it’s buttoned up fully, a warm, fluffy scarf covering the top that also almost reaches Neuvillette’s mouth, while the lower edge of the coat rides below the dancer’s knees. His usual shoes are exchanged for a warmer, winter version; thick, loose pants hang lower than his ankles. The cane aside, also nothing can hide the metal frame of the brace that hugs Neuvillette’s left leg – but the coat is a kind cover that hides most of this.
The way from the subway is not too long; still, Wriothesley realises he was occupied enough in his mind that he probably could have seen Neuvillette from a good distance as the mostly leafless trees didn’t block the sight. Yet, he didn’t notice him any sooner than quite literally having the dancer with a waving hand in his vision.
“Hello, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette greets him as the boxer walks up to him, crossing the small remaining distance between them. His voice is clean and unlike last time, he doesn’t sound broken – the name falls from his lips with a slight, gentle smile.
“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley returns the greeting with a little nod, being absolutely sure that he can’t keep the happiness of seeing the dancer out of his voice – as if he would have a reason to try to do so. Then looking down at the dog, he adds, “And hello Mademoiselle, of course,” his extra greeting that earns him a tiny ‘woof’.
Wriothesley glances back up; a blue gaze crosses a lilac one – seeing the light in Neuvillette’s eyes single-handedly dissolves a big part of the worrisome thoughts that plagued Wriothesley’s mind.
“You were deep in your thoughts,” Neuvillette starts, a little hesitant, “Are you sure this detour is not an inconvenience for you?”
As if it could be.
“A hundred percent sure,” Wriothesley answers without missing a beat, not letting Neuvillette’s gaze go. The sight of guilt from Sunday, like a ghost, sits on the dancer – but Wriothesley doesn’t care about how many times he has to say that this is utterly baseless, he will never spare the effort on this. Because if Neuvillette offered this meeting just like it was he who reached out first when they sat on the couch – and maybe now Wriothesley doesn’t slide a hand over to stop the dancer from fleeing (although he wishes he could be doing this) – then, he makes sure that this another little step once again cannot be taken back.
“Alright,” nodding, Neuvillette swallows down his worry.
Wriothesley doesn’t miss the tiny inhale and the little shift in his motion, but he lets him just… be. A human.
Anything less than perfect.
It’s heartbreaking to see how Neuvillette almost waits to be called out on something – but Wriothesley sees the dancer has more to say, so he stays silent. He thinks and contemplates asking Neuvillette how he is doing; without an answer, Wriothesley can see that Neuvillette stands tall again (that he feels he does) – it may be far from his usual, but he is trying. He is trying so hard.
The only reason why he doesn’t ask is out of respect: to let Neuvillette lead this meeting as long as he would like to and to let him escape something he may not want to say. To let him finish – even though he didn’t say that he would like to speak, Wriothesley knows.
His action – patience – earns him an appreciative, slow blink.
Neuvillette runs his gaze over Wriothesley and he raises his free, left hand a little – he opens his mouth to speak, but with a little sigh, he ends up looking away instead, as if he changed his mind. Just to do something with his left and conceal the motion – or maybe Wriothesley just misunderstands and this was Neuvillette’s original intention – the dancer fumbles with the leash a little until it’s back in this hand; Mademoiselle obediently walks to his other side after the tiniest tug on his collar.
Wriothesley realises: just to wave to him, Neuvillette freed up a hand from the leash; he wishes he didn’t miss the sight at first from the distance.
With the leash in one hand and the cane in his other, Neuvillette straightens his spine and glances up at Wriothesley one more time. Even through the thick layers of fabric, his movement bears elegance; Neuvillette stands in front of him with the smallest amount of pride – despite being ‘broken’. He is bare in the way he is hurt: he leans on his cane without being ashamed of himself (as if he should be). The dark circles under his eyes look better than how they were on Sunday – yet, they do tell enough. A piece of hair escapes the rather unruly, low bun – yet, it looks better than it did last time (as if Wriothesley would mind).
Neuvillette is imperfect – but he is ready to be seen. Even if only by one person. He waits a few more moments, letting Wriothesley take in the sight (maybe waiting to see if the other would leave…? Or does he wait because he is not ready yet to speak…?) then with one last forced inhale, he starts:
“I suppose you didn’t expect a normal paced walk today anyway and I tried to be clear about this in my message, but…” Neuvillette did find it in himself to look into Wriothesley’s eyes – which the boxer knows how hard it could be and how big of a step it is for him – but now he swallows and averts his gaze.
Maybe, this is how it’ll always be between the two of them: Neuvillette taking a small step, considering it that it was a mistake – but Wriothesley being faster than a step backwards could be, and giving some reassurance.
“All I expected was to spend some time in your company.” Quiet, well-thought, utterly honest words come… And Wriothesley feels brave enough that he raises a hand and reaches out to touch Neuvillette’s upper arm. It’s just a moment, just a way to get the other’s attention – but sometimes small gestures and a few words can mean the world.
Before his presence could be too much, or before he would fear that he is overstepping, Wriothesley pulls back – in the orange light of the streetlamps, Neuvillette’s lilac gaze shines just a bit different when he glances up again.
It is hard to be accepted: Wriothesley knows. He also has only a little idea of how it truly feels – and most of this can be attributed to Neuvillette.
An ‘Alright’ is whispered – too quietly for Wriothesley to truly hear it, he can just rather read it from the dancer’s mouth – accompanied with a tiny nod. Neuvillette gathers himself again (once again almost too soon to be normal for someone to win such battles and put up a facade good enough that allow to function), then with a slightly shaky voice, he says, “Then, shall we? I think Mademoiselle also can’t wait to see the lake. Normally, when she is left with me, I take her out a bit sooner than today.”
“I also wish to see the lake in sunlight too, one day,” Wriothesley replies, reassuring. Hopeful. Kind. He waits for Neuvillette to go ahead and set a pace – he falls into step a moment later; the ball of fluff, that Mademoiselle is, is running obediently by Neuvillette’s ankle.
Maybe it’s fated that the tiny dog is with them tonight – she gives a safe topic and ground for their talk to start. Neuvillette’s limp is bad – but Wriothesley saw how he could barely put any weight onto his leg on Sunday, and compared to that, this is better. He goes along to ignore the elephant in the room and he simply finds a rhythm akin to Neuvillette’s pace – the further away they walk and the more sentences they spare on Mademoiselle, the more freed the dancer becomes.
The chilly breeze, and the ‘workout’ that is to walk with a bad leg and a cane, paint a little pink shade onto Neuvillette’s cheeks – his pale skin dusted with some colour, without less and less wariness and fear solely over Wriothesley’s presence and opinion and to be seen, the dancer only becomes more and more beautiful. Wriothesley has known for a while that he is in love (because if this is not it then he doubts he can ever fall for someone) – but seeing this wonderful person he adores being so strong and so human makes his heart beat faster than what a walk alone could ever cause.
Wriothesley learns that it’s actually a ‘fortunate-unfortunate’ situation that Neuvillette could be available to dogsit Mademoiselle this whole afternoon as this is not the day when he normally takes her for a few hours. They reach the park and the lake’s side in minutes while the dancer explains why he took up this responsibility now, and how just coming down with her to the little grass in front of his building is something that he can at the very least do. Not fully agreeing with the way Neuvillette phrases his capabilities, but Wriothesley doesn’t argue; he does not when he knows that trying but taking care is what the dancer does.
The night is pitch black but aside from the chilly weather, the air is fresh and the sky is clear; a little, paved road leads from the park’s entrance towards the depth of the area, going by the lake the whole time as far as Wriothesley can see. Mademoiselle tugs on the leash when she sees a particularly green spot of grass that’s a little further away from the road – Neuvillette hesitates for a moment if he should let her go – he visibly contemplates leaving the road, even if only for a few steps.
Wriothesley is hit with a sudden idea.
“May I?” He asks and reaches for the end of the leash before he can think it through – simply, the offer is the most logical way that lets the so far perfectly behaving dog sniff at something, while Neuvillette can simultaneously stay on safe, even ground.
Maybe, only a few days prior, before they spent hours sitting next to each other, hand in hand, Neuvillette would have never accepted this because he is the true cause of the offer and the person in need… But now, he nods only after a few seconds, handing over the end of the fancy leash that speaks of Furina’s exquisite style.
“Thank you,” quiet, but warm words accompany the action – when Wriothesley’s gaze meets Neuvillette’s, the dancer also gives him a tiny smile.
Having his help accepted makes the boxer’s chest feel warm.
With Mademoiselle happily sniffing along the way, Wriothesley walks right next to the road, by Neuvillette’s side; the grass-examination sets an even slower pace than their former one. The district’s cosy peace and the darkness make the three of them feel almost fully alone in the area; the closest bench to the entrance by the lake’s side approaches quickly and awaits them emptily. They haven’t come far and because of the dog, they’ve been going even slower now, but Wriothesley is not blind and Neuvillette is either too smart to pretend and cause himself more hardship, or he just simply can’t pretend any better.
Neuvillette’s building isn’t far at all, but getting here has taken them at least around fifteen minutes already – Wriothesley guesses. Sometimes, the less is more; he is sure that Neuvillette also knows.
“What if we sit down and go back once the cold is too much or if Mademoiselle has finished being interested in the area, hm?” Wriothesley asks, gesturing at the wooden bench a few meters ahead of them. His voice lacks pity (of course, it does, he would never think of Neuvillette that way) – it is instead warm.
He doesn’t say, ‘Please, don’t be dumb. Fresh air and leaving the house a little may be good for you, but you shouldn’t be walking around when your leg hurts this much…’
Wriothesley doesn’t say, but Neuvillette knows what he thinks anyway – at least the boxer hopes he does. A part of him still itches to know what happened to Neuvillette and why it is so hard for him to accept help… But also, Wriothesley doesn’t care. Not when learning something would only be to satisfy his curiosity, and not to help Neuvillette feel better in any way.
After a few seconds of contemplation while fighting himself (maybe he doesn’t hide it anymore or maybe Wriothesley has gotten better at seeing this), with a nod, Neuvillette makes his way to the bench. He speaks doing so, but as he replies, his voice is filled with the slightest of worry:
“I’m dressed warmly and this close to her next haircut, Mademoiselle also doesn’t feel cold in this weather I believe – but I truly hope you won’t catch a cold and fall sick. You…” Neuvillette stops himself before he sits down, now standing by the bench. He fully turns towards Wriothesley to take in the sight of the boxer’s outfit. “You don’t even wear a scarf. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound like I’m questioning the way you dress... I just know you have a lot of matches to fight and I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold,” he adds rather quietly.
As if saying that he cares would be something bad and hard to hear for Wriothesley…
Though, it is – the latter part. Because when did anyone ever care about his health – except for Sigewinne in a medical setting…?
‘No one did. No one ever.’
“Ah…” Before Wriothesley can stop himself, a mannerless little sigh escapes him. He clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to find a single thought to hold onto – but under the kind gaze of Neuvillette, this is not an easy task.
Realising that his way of waiting may be pressuring, Neuvillette apologetically averts his gaze away and proceeds to sit down – though as this happens, Wriothesley finds a few words to say:
“Don’t worry about me being cold,” he starts and without a second thought, he extends a hand towards Neuvillette to hold onto as he is balancing on one leg and his cane, trying to lower himself down slowly.
It’s an offer… And somehow, Wriothesley’s hand is taken by Neuvillette’s gloved one as he also continues the sentence at the same time, “Ever since I started to work out as a teen, I’ve only been cold when I truly didn’t have weather-appropriate clothing on me. I’ll be fine.” Reassuring, his voice is steady, and by the time Wriothesley finishes, Neuvillette is sitting and drawing back his hand with a murmured ‘Thank you.’
Their gazes meet and the true meaning of Neuvillette’s comment, Wriothesley’s honestly, then the offered – and taken – hand hits them both at the same time. They blink at each other; Wriothesley feels the words struck in his throat – and he sees the same on Neuvillette, too.
Neither of them feels the cold now – or at least less than before.
The lightest of the most honest smiles appear on both of their faces; Wriothesley feels his cheeks heat up a little, and he blesses the dim light of the streetlamps while simultaneously cursing it as this way he is also not privy to the fullness of Neuvillette’s expression.
Wriothesley sits down next to Neuvillette – close enough that their thighs almost touch. As Neuvillette has chosen the right side for himself, Wriothesley makes sure to not sit too close and accidentally bump into Neuvillette’s left, almost fully outstretched leg… But once he is seated, the dancer moves a little to find more comfort for himself, sliding ever-so-slightly closer in the process.
They both look ahead, to the lake, as if the almost black-looking water in the late evening would be the most interesting thing ever. Not sensing her guardians' comfortable, yet slightly heated aura, Mademoiselle happily sniffs around Wriothesley’s leg, going as far away at the side of the bench as the leash allows.
The silence of the evening falls over them: it’s like a comfortable blanket.
Their hands are kept to themselves – but they rest on their thighs, close enough that the sleeves of their coats lightly touch. As they relax, their shoulders lay a bit closer, too – just in the slightest, but Neuvillette leans towards Wriothesley, just like he had a few days ago.
Minutes pass; it is the most wonderful, quietly shared time under the distant stars in the late afternoon – now early evening – sky.
Wriothesley almost thinks about starting a topic to fill up the emptiness between them – not because the soft noise of the breeze and Mademoiselle wouldn’t be enough, but because there is so much he would like to tell Neuvillette (even though he isn’t sure yet where would be the wisest to start). However, the dancer speaks sooner:
“I wrote about it before but you deserve me to say it, especially since it is true now as well, in this moment: thank you for all the time and care you showed to me. I appreciate your friendship a lot.” Sincere words, soft-spoken come; Neuvillette glances Wriothesley’s way in the end before he turns back to the lake after their gazes meet.
Wriothesley feels the warmth.
With a soft exhale and inhale, it’s only a moment of pause before Neuvillette continues, “I am also grateful that you’re letting me be…” Swallowing, he takes a short pause. “Anything and everything other than what my profession and others want me to show every day. I…” Trailing off, the dancer eventually stops.
From the corner of his eyes, Wriothesley sees Neuvillette glance up at the sky the same way he was looking at his ceiling while trying to keep it together. Slowly, the boxer reaches out to touch the back of his gloved hand – it is eerily similar yet so different from how it had been three days ago. Nevuillette freezes for a moment; his hand is cold even through his glove… Wriothesley wishes he could hold it between his two, warming it up, cherishing the reason why he is allowed to do so.
But instead of what his heart desires, he just leaves his hand as he quietly says, “You don’t have to finish – I’m here nevertheless if you would like to tell me every detail. If you decide to speak, I will listen – but if not saying more is better for you, then please, don’t force yourself, alright?”
Lowering his gaze to Wriothesley's hand on top of his own, Neuvillette bites into his lower lip and blinks the tears away so they don’t spill; unmasked about the meaning of his action, then he meets the boxer’s eyes. “I know I don’t have to, not with you… But I want to try. You deserve that I at least try.”
‘To be more honest,’ Neuvillette doesn’t say the end, but Wriothesley knows what he means.
Honesty and the back-and-forth small steps they’ve been taking in the same direction are the foundation of why they are sitting on a bench by a lake on a late November evening while Wriothesley’s hand lays over Neuvillette’s… Yet, Wriothesley would give all the time and patience to Neuvillette to try later. When he is truly ready.
Still, he nods. Because he knows Neuvillette wouldn’t say this to anyone (maybe not to any other person… Even if the sheer thought that he is special is something that Wriothesley can hardly believe.) Instead of interrupting the dancer, he just very lightly squeezes Neuvillette’s hand under his own. It’s barely even the smallest motion of his fingers – but it is a clue for the dancer that Wriothesley is here with him and he will listen.
He is here, even if what he has to say isn’t much – not today, not yet… And Wriothesley has no idea how the tiniest of details can be already more than what Neuvillette has given to anyone else in the past decade.
“Thank you for coming here today, even though you knew that this would be very far from an actual walk…” Neuvillette continues, his voice being apologetic as he implies he didn’t say the entire truth about the fullest nature of their stroll – but Wriothesley knows he must have suspected that the boxer wasn’t blind to this part. Neuvillette wrote more than enough; as if Wriothesley would mind just having the dancer out in the air and sitting next to him for a while.
So far Neuvillette mostly looked ahead at the lake or he didn’t exactly meet Wriothesley’s eyes, but now he makes sure to look up fully and let their gazes lock before he says more:
“I also owe you my gratitude for keeping me company throughout the past days – aside from my current state, I enjoy reading your arguments on our discussed topics and shared interests or just simply learning more about you or the sport you do.” Neuvillette’s voice is genuine and pure; with his cane leaned to the bench and his right hand free, he momentarily places his hand over his heart – the gesture alone has such significance that Wriothesley isn’t sure how much his heart can take from this sight.
Hesitating, Neuvillette almost places his hand over Wriothesley’s, but despite starting with the motion, in the end, he just simply lowers it back down by his side.
But he is not done yet; after a short pause and fighting himself to not stop, Neuvillette still has more to add, “I asked about tea in our messages – but considering my reaction at the first time when you asked me to join you for a cup, I think you deserve a short explanation. You didn’t ask me ever since – but you could have,” he states, almost implying he was waiting for a confrontation. Maybe, he had.
“Aside from me wanting to avoid unnecessary media presence and liking my privacy in my free time, your question in the past caught me off-guard. I’m not a big tea drinker,” Neuvillette’s voice wavers, seemingly from more than what he just said – and if Wriothesley had any doubts that there was more about that reaction, then now he is sure his first thought had been right.
But nevertheless how tense Neuvillette sits now, keeping himself to ‘wanting to try’, he continues, “The majority of the cups of tea I’ve had throughout my life have been shared with others, mostly with…” A sigh. “With…” Another one, and a deep inhale. “With a friend, who—”
Neuvillette fights himself – and he loses.
His voice breaking, the dancer squeezes his eyes shut. His posture breaks and his shoulders slump; his free right arm protectively starts to curl around his torso before he realises his action and stops his arm midway in the motion.
Respect – to let Neuvillette finish – goes far, but now Wriothesley can’t just wait and do nothing.
“Neuvillette,” he calls out.
Wriothesley starts quietly, his voice low, and as shooting as he can muster. Slowly, but without meeting any resistance, he slides his hand downwards that rests on top of Neuvillette’s – he does so until he can have the dancer’s hand in his own, holding it like treasure.
Gently, he grips Neuvillette’s hand a little bit more firmly, as if a motion could just say on its own: ‘You are not alone. (I love you.) Take it easy, don’t push yourself. (I love you.) I’m here if you need me but it is alright if you can’t or don’t want to share more. (I love you so much.)’
“To have the past leaving marks that don’t allow you to do things or alter how you behave…” Wriothesley starts, then trails off: without realising what other meaning his words could have for someone who spent years away from his sport because of an injury, he might have chosen a very inappropriate metaphor.
Wriothesley curses himself in his mind, but Neuvillette (almost frozen, waiting for his judgement and assessment that he tried and failed) doesn’t pull away – and of course, the boxer also doesn’t let go.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, especially not to me. I…” Can he even say this? One day, maybe – but trust is a word Wriothesley cannot say yet, no matter how much he means it.
Bless his good soul – despite his own pain, as Wriothesley hesitates, Neuvillette opens his eyes; his gaze is kind and worrying, studying him and searching for a way to help – in the end, he also holds Wriothesley’s hand just a little tighter. The lilac gaze is eventually cast downwards, stopping on their hands.
Rephrasing his sentence, the boxer continues another way instead, “All I hope is that you can feel better. You’re a hard-working, strong person – but if all we do is talk about what we both are able to do at the moment, then I don’t need more. If I tell you I have the time and I’m glad to just sit next to you in silence, then I mean it truly. And…” Oh, trust. And so much more. Licking his lips, it’s his time to stop – because it is once again just too hard to simply say. It is when he means it from the bottom of his heart.
Wriothesley thinks that the only way he avoids hypocrisy is to do the exact thing he just advised – and it is to know when to stop. “I may also not be able to say more on this matter now, but if you too enjoy time spent together like this, then I don’t think either of us needs more explanations. Topics that would be too hard to speak about can be avoided – I won’t ever fault you for this, and I doubt you would do it either, right?”
Even though Neuvillette’s delicate hand is covered with a glove, Wriothesley can’t help but run his thumb over the back of it that he can reach; maybe the motion feels very different through the fabric, but Neuvillette must still be able to feel it – aside from witnessing it with his downcast gaze.
At first, it’s just a tiny nod of agreement – then it’s followed by a shaky breath until Neuvillette wills himself to meet Wriothesley’s gaze.
“I am better,” Neuvillette says, quietly – yet it is a statement.
Despite the shine in his eyes from the tears that didn’t spill this evening, even if his posture and the outstretched, braced leg tell of defeat, Neuvillette is anything but done yet. He squeezes Wriothesley’s hand and holds it tighter for a long second.
“I will try my best, and I am happy I went to that gym on a Sunday in that September early morning and asked you to help me with the squats.” If sincerity could kill a man… And Neuvillette still has a sentence left, “Thank you, Wriothesley.”
The chilly air suddenly feels anything but cold at all; only the dark lake and the empty park to witness, under the orange light of the streetlamps, an icy blue gaze and a lilac one intertwine and hold each other for a long moment. Hand in hand, shoulders touching, Wriothesley and Neuvillette look at each other, and—
—a bird on a nearby pine tree makes a loud chirping noise that’s accompanied by the flapping sound of wings; Mademoiselle who has been quietly sniffing around the bench on Wriothesley’s side now starts barking loudly.
The sudden noise startles them enough that they jump a little while sitting, the mutual hold of their hands breaking in the process. As he gets spooked, Neuvillette instinctively moves his hurt leg a little too fast – the motion leaves him with a passing flinch and his now free left hand reaching out towards his knee.
With Mademoiselle barking, his heart racing a bit, worry washes over Wriothesley for a moment – all before Neuvillette gathers himself (thankfully, looking as alright as before) and calls out the tiny white fluffball’s name that stops her little rampage immediately. Normally, Wriothesley likes birds as any other animals (alright, maybe his preferred choice would still be a dog or a cat), but tonight he feels that he likes a certain bird on the pine tree a little less – not like he thinks he would have dared to advance… Whatever that means.
Nevertheless, their moment was ruined – not like Wriothesley still doesn't appreciate that it at least happened. After a short conversation and agreement that, maybe, it’d be best to go back, Wriothesley offers Neuvillette a hand as he stands. He only hopes that the future can bring a lot more of these moments – but at times when neither of them suffers as the dancer does now.
Neuvillette is strong: Wriothesley sees the struggle and it’s unnoticeable how the way back is slower, the dancer leaving the continuation of their talk mostly at him instead of trying to contribute as much as he had done only a while ago.
‘I am better,’ the words echo in Wriothesley’s mind. He does his best to believe it deeply.
Mademoiselle’s leash stays in his hand – he only gives it back to Neuvillette when he stands at the door of his building. Wriothesley asks (because he couldn’t face himself not doing so) if the dancer needs anything – and Neuvillette declines, he does so with such honesty this time that the boxer doesn’t even think to question it (as if he would question the dancer).
Knowing that Furina will come to pick up her dog soon and that aside from this interaction, Neuvillette has enough on his plate to care for himself, Wriothesley says a quick goodbye – even though he wishes he could stay, or that he could just… Hug Neuvillette before he leaves, he understands how precious the trust is that he was given today. He bids farewell with a ‘Take good care,’ that he says instead of only being able to write it in a message.
Their last shared moment is through two sides of a door; it makes it similar to last time – yet, it couldn’t be more different.
From the other side of the building’s glass entrance door, before turning towards the elevator, the artificial light showing his cold-made red cheeks, Neuvillette smiles and waves – and Wriothesley returns both.