Work Text:
Smoke curled through the air of the office, nicotine and incense making Neuvillette’s head foggy with languor. He watched his hands sign away at the many, many papers at his desk, but he didn’t feel them moving. Or the pen in his hand, for that matter. It all felt… quite distant to him for the time being.
He glanced out the window absently for a moment, looking at the rain falling. His cheeks were still wet with the tears he had cried earlier, that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. He supposed the light drizzle was a result of this. He thinks about how nobody would notice anyways as he puffed from his cigarette.
With a sigh, he turns back to his papers. Signing the same signature, over and over, a large ‘N’ and then the many curls and loops that made up the rest of his countersign. He didn’t want to do this right now. How long had it been since he’d taken a break? Got up and stretched his legs, had some water? He couldn’t remember. Everytime the dragon cleared his throat it felt like sandpaper was scratching along his mouth, everytime he blinked his eyes watered. He wished to stop, but he couldn’t find it in himself to.
He never could.
It goes on like this for what seems like minutes, but what is actually hours. Early afternoon fades into late evening, foggy sun turning to the soft glow of the moon. Neuvillette didn’t notice he’d been writing in almost complete darkness until a certain voice was heard from the grand doors to his office, clearing their throat with a soft ‘ahem’.
“... you should not be working now,” Wriothesley grumbled, his tall, muscled form resting against the wooden frame of the bed. His arms were crossed, the deep red of his shirt bulging against the contours of the strong thew. “It is much too late. Did you forget that Focalors is demanding you accompany her to the opera tomorrow? Again?”
Neuvillette turns his head, blinking his eyes slowly as they take in the darkness. His hands go shaky as he drops the pen, but all he does is stare for a moment, amethyst purple meeting sterling silver from across the room.
“I am well aware,” he mumbles softly, pale lips curling into a yawn. “I must finish these.”
“... why are you here, Wriothesley?” he continues. “You know I do not take kindly to interruption.”
The other male rolled his eyes, stepping inside the office. The chains hanging from his belts clinked together, slicing through the thick silence of the room harshly. Neuvillette flinched at the noise slightly, the clattering grating on his sensitive ears. Wriothesley shuts the oak door behind his entrance with a soft click.
“It was raining earlier,” he mentioned nonchalantly, curling his fingers over the edge of the seat resting in front of Neuvillette’s desk. There was an inkling of irritated concern in his voice. “It has been raining for the last few days.”
Neuvillette knew that it would pass off as a regular remark to anyone else, but he knew what Wriothesley was implying. The dragon scoffed slightly, shaking his head. Some of the silver of his hair fell into his eyes; he didn’t bother fixing it for once.
“... it has been,” he whispers, picking up his pen once more.
He does not elaborate further.
He can feel Wriothesley’s vexation towards him. The man had every right to feel impatient; the hydro dragon had locked himself away in his office for the last few days and nobody had a clue why. They all figured it was just due to work, or the fact that he didn’t want to deal with people. Of course he didn’t want to deal with others, but that was not the only reason.
Something had been happening. His usual apathy towards the people he knew was beginning to fade into something unfamiliar and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. And, being extremely terrible at admitting any of his emotions as well as understanding them, the only way he knew how to process them was to isolate himself and bury his head deep in the paperwork that was ever piling up.
“You know that is not what I am asking,” Wriothesley mutters, stepping forward and plucking the pen from Neuvillette’s soft, ash-stained fingers. “What is wrong? It has not poured like this for a long time, Chief Justice.”
Neuvillette stares up at the man in front of him quietly, eyes blank and dull. In the darkness of the room Wriothesley’s eyes gleam gunmetal, the flecks of platinum in them catching the moon. The dragon can feel his breath hitch, his heart quicken. The tears brew, and he doesn’t know why. There is nothing for him to be crying over.
Is that just his reaction to any emotion? To cry? He hopes not, or else that could create quite the mess for the entirety of Fontaine.
“Nothing is wrong,” he denies, the lie clear in his voice. “The rain this time around means nothing. My eyes have just been… bleary, is all. Foggy.”
But Wriothesley can see the glimmer of saltwater in Neuvillette’s waterline, the ever so slight tremor to his usually stoic voice. He could brush it off and pass it as the man being tired and overworked, but that is a common excuse. One that applies in this situation, but still. He knows there is something going on, and he cannot help but feel like he has a clue to what it is.
So he takes Neuvillette by the sleeve, calloused fingers curling over the silk-clad wrist of the dragon carefully. The movement startles the man slightly, but Neuvillette calms. Wriothesley’s hand is warm and solid, and entirely too much through the thin fabric of his gloves.
He wishes he had the resolve to hold back the tears but he is quite sure that is impossible now, considering the effect this simple touch has had on him. A couple of them tracked down his sharp cheekbones and jaw, and with it the shower outside turned to a heavy drizzle.
Wriothesley doesn’t say anything after that, as he pulls up the judge by his wrist. Neuvillette doesn’t complain, or speak at all for that matter. He just lets the other drag him up and out of his seat, out of the thick and warm atmosphere of his office and into the room adjacent to it, a sort of resting room. Wriothesley pushes him down onto the large couch there, ushering Neuvillette to get comfortable as he goes about making tea.
With the soft cushions of the seating underneath him, and the open, cool air of the room, Neuvillette feels exhaustion settle into his bones. From his work, the neverending papers and cases he has to take on. From the odd influx of emotion he’s been feeling (towards one specific person, one he will not name but one he knows quite, quite well), from his sudden sensitivity to so many damn things it’s hard to keep track of. The heat, loud noises, outbursts of Focalors he had grown accustomed to. He was so tired.
Wriothesley comes back with the tea, holding out the mug to Neuvillette’s hands with his own. Once the man takes it, he takes a seat next to him silently. Neuvillette watches him cross one leg over the other, settling into the cushions comfortably.
And as the heat from the cup settles into his hands and the silent solace Wriothesley brings, he feels the rain might stop soon.