Chapter Text
When Wriothesley opens the gym’s door sharp at five in the morning, he doesn’t expect to see anyone else inside – except the poor soul who is at the reception and gained the morning shift for today. Yet, a man with silverish-gleaming white hair pulled into a neat ponytail, stands at the counter in front of Wriothesley, waiting to get his gym pass.
In the past two months since he's been living in Fontaine like he does now, not on a single occasion has anyone arrived at the gym before Wriothesley on a Sunday.
Nor on any other days when Wriothesley had an early morning session before his club training – he has been frequenting this place enough, even multiple times a day when he didn’t have ring fights for practice, or if these ended up being very light. He has never seen the person in front of him training here – he’s quite sure because he would remember.
As the bell over his head at the entrance announces his arrival, both the receptionist – a guy Wriothesley knows by name now – and the white-haired man look his way. He nods towards them and closes the door, the chilly morning breeze sweeping over all of them as he does. It may be only the beginning of September, but the early mornings like this are cold enough already.
“Here you go, uhm, Monsieur,” the staff member says, hesitating a bit as he chooses the more polite and formal way of addressing a stranger while he hands the white-haired man a daily pass, a locker key, and some coins of Mora as change. He’s clearly having quite a hard time (and failing to hide it) finding the correct words that one would say to someone like the man in front of him – and Wriothesley partially understands why.
Wriothesley is not in his thirties yet, but the gym’s newest visitor looks somewhat older than him; meanwhile, the staff member just had his nineteenth birthday a while ago – they even celebrated it in the gym, Wriothesley came to training that day as well and he saw the cake. For someone who almost calls the gym his home and rarely sees anything but the sweatpants and activewear, or the casual clothes of the nearby clubs’ athletes – who are the most frequent visitors of this gym – this new man is so out of place.
‘The Monsieur’ is a tall, slender man who wears a black, thin, below-the-knee, woollen coat. It hangs on his frame unbuttoned, revealing a white button-up shirt and dark blue slacks, giving him a classy and neat look. Even though he’s just standing there and it’s five in the morning, his pose is elegant, as if one could stand in place with grace. Maybe there’s only a small percentage of humans who are able…
But apparently, ‘the Monsieur’ belongs to this group – and the sight raises Wriothesley’s heart rate enough for him to feel it.
Wriothesley takes the full sight of this man in – it’s not a surprise that his elegant shoes (even with a few centimetres of heels which somehow make Wriothesley wonder for a second if the man’s ankles might become visible for a secretly caught, fleeting moment as he walks… only to have him berate himself for such thought) match his attire perfectly. The one thing that ‘ruins’ his perfect image is the black gym bag in his right hand. The corners are slightly worn, so this must not just be the first usage of it – despite the elegance of his clothing and how much it hides from his figure, Wriothesley somehow knows for sure he must be doing some kind of a sport. Probably on a high level. Nobody gets poise and posture like him without hard work.
“Thank you,” the man answers the receptionist with a measured little smile. His voice is calm, clear, and… refreshing.
Wriothesley can’t help but stare at him – he had learnt the hard way what fake smiles and kindness look like, but all he can perceive is honesty and genuine kindness.
While he’s been watching – probably staring – at the encounter at the reception’s high desk, Wriothesley stopped in his tracks while still standing at the doorway. The cleaning lady, who’s now attempting to come inside, almost knocks him over with the door – as if it’d be an easy job to move an object that is a tall and muscular professional boxer like him.
‘The Monsieur’ catches his gaze – and oh, his irises have a unique lilac hue that Wriothesley is utterly sure he has seen somewhere – before he practically jumps away from the doorway, letting the lady in with her big bags of supplies she’s carrying.
Forgetting about the man, Wriothesley apologises to her and offers his help to carry her equipment to the backroom – after their former encounters, she gladly takes on his proposal now. On a few occasions in the past, when Wriothesley was the last to leave the gym, he helped her carry out some huge bags of trash to the back of the building, always making silly jokes about how this was training for him when she wanted to refuse his help… He had offered and told her about the training agenda, until nowadays, she just accepts his offer with a thankful little bow.
By the time he gets back from the backroom to the reception, Wriothesley is alone with the staff member. They exchange a few words as he scans the monthly pass his boxing club got for him, and then he heads towards the locker rooms to pack up his belongings. He lives close enough that aside from a pair of inside shoes, a bottle of water, and a towel, his gym bag is mostly empty today.
Once alone in the locker room, Wriothesley sheds his sweater and changes his shoes, takes one glance at himself in the mirror. The image of himself is not something he very much prefers to see… unless it is to check he looks socially acceptable enough. His life has given him many sets of scars that he’s way too conscious about – Wriothesley doesn’t like the extra attention these can get him on an otherwise quiet and calm day.
He can’t avoid people seeing the ugly, red marks on his neck, chest, and forearms while he’s fighting in the ring, but he prefers to wear long-sleeved clothing with preferably a higher neck part too on every other occasion in his life. The scar under his right eye is something that remains – Wriothesley is used to strangers’ eyes diverting away from his own as this mark may be hard to ignore for them.
The dark red coloured shirt he has on under the now-shed sweater is one of the newest pieces that his new sponsor got him with the logo of his boxing club on its back. Wriothesley was given the choice between a few models, and he went with the one that had even a higher neck part, not just the long sleeves. It still doesn’t cover everything, but it’s better than any regular shirt would be. His loose black shorts and the long compression pants he wears underneath them have seen better days – but they don’t look so ratty yet that he wouldn’t dare to wear them in a public gym.
Taking one last glance at the mirror, Wriothesley brushes away his grey-ridden black bangs from his eyes to rule tousled hair – that taking off the sweater messed up – and then he turns his back on the sight he prefers not to see. ‘There is nothing worthy to see,’ he tells himself with the slightest bittersweet upturn of the corners of his mouth as he knows well this has a double meaning.
Even though he didn’t take long before getting to the changing room, he had to give it to the white-haired man that he was quick to change out of his formal attire as Wriothesley hadn’t seen him around: the men’s locker room is big but not spacious enough to lose track of another person. After he finishes packing away his belongings, with a water bottle in one hand and his towel over his shoulder, Wriothesley heads up to the gym’s main training space.
It takes him a few seconds to stop staring and start minding his own business as the sight that welcomes him is ‘the Monsieur’ while he’s warming up on one of the treadmills: he’s walking at a fairly high speed while using the incline mode. All Wriothesley can see are his lean, statue-like, perfectly shaped thighs and butt that his tight black pants only highlight.
Wriothesley needs moments to realise there are mirrors on the wall, and the man can, in fact, see his reaction from them. Blinking fast, Wriothesley curses himself and walks away to the furthest area of the gym to finally start minding his own business.
He has no idea what has gotten into him.
Maybe (not just maybe) it has been too long since he got laid. He ‘blames’ the man’s refined, elegant aura that somehow decided to occupy and overtake his mind – but Wriothesley is not one to fall for anyone. Not like this. Not now. He can’t afford to spare energy on this while he finally has some stability in his life and an opportunity to change it for the better. A chance to change things for the better while he plays by all ‘the rules’.
Yet, he can’t help but again feel his heart beating faster than normal. He knows he has seen this man somewhere, but he can’t remember.
Wriothesley does his best to forget how their eyes met through the mirror and how he must have made the impression of a stupid teenager.
Far away from the treadmills and dedicating his attention to his routine warm-up brings Wriothesley back to his reality soon enough. His body has been through a lot. Keeping himself in shape and strong enough for the demands of his fights is not just a necessity but a must – and it’s for the benefit of his mental and physical well-being.
To Wriothesley’s biggest surprise, the sports doctor his club assigned to him at his first visit was a familiar face from his underage jail time. True to her former antics, Sigewinne scolded him (with all the might of a tiny doctor who otherwise hands stickers out to her patients) for not taking enough care over the past decade despite the promise he made to her before he had to leave to spend his last two months of imprisonment in a place of confinement that was meant for adults.
The first visit led to a conversation and… Maybe Sigewinne is just too kind (or liked to see how a thin and broken ‘thing’ he once was, grew into a big muscular man), but she met Wriothesley outside of her practice a few times already – she did as his ‘friend’.
Wriothesley hasn’t found any better word for it even if it doesn’t feel fully alright; nevertheless, it’s not a question, and it has never been one, that her actions (over her ‘role’ that got Wriothesley Sigewinne’s way) have always been genuine. As his doctor, she’s responsible for signing his papers to let him fight, and she told Wriothesley he’ll never bribe her if he’s not alright – not that he would ever try. Oh, if only he would try… Sigewinne’s wrath is not something Wriothesley intends to experience.
Even if the light friendship between them goes back to the times when Sigewinne was the only person in his life who ever truly cared about him, and even if now it’s a risk on her job as she is still his assigned doctor, as long as she offers it, Wriothesley is not dumb enough to not take upon her proposal to spend a little time together outside of the boxing club. Wriothesley knows she wouldn’t befriend him out of pity. She’s also quite the only person ever in Wriothesley’s life who didn’t try to befriend him only to use him for something – and he genuinely enjoyed the few afternoons when they had a cup of tea together. These almost made him feel that his life was normal. That it could one day be normal.
Focused on his thoughts, on the familiar motions and aches within his body, Wriothesley quickly forgets about time. Like a machine, he just goes through the exercises and stretches he had learned a long time ago while he participated in the underground pankration and boxing fights. Whatever brought Mora, food, and shelter for him. Whatever as long as he wasn’t breaking any laws – he wasn’t while he was fighting various opponents every night.
Soon enough, Wriothesley is on his second set of the upper-arm training cycle he has to do today, his only company being the metal mount, filled with heavy dumbbells and kettlebells, when he can see the gym’s other user slowly approaching him. Cautiously, a little bit cat-like. Or, ‘the Monsieur’ is maybe not going to Wriothesley exactly, but to the leg machines and the barbell with its stand that’s for squatting. Right next to the bench where Wriothesley trains.
The hour is still early, and it’s a Sunday, which is most people’s day off or cross-training day – so it’s still only the two of them in the whole gym, as far as the lack of other people in the weight room shows here.
Wriothesley catches the man’s gaze as he approaches – his eyes are kind just like when he smiled at the staff member at the reception, even if his slight hesitation as he looks around is visible on him. Aside from his ethereal looks – that the tight black pants, his dark blue, long-sleeved shirt, and his immaculate ponytail only enhance – he looks as friendly as the majority of the usual gym-goers are: the ones who mind their own business, yet, are genuinely polite towards others.
There’s just a feeling about those who train regularly; people often are in the gym fighting their demons.
One may start due to the pressure of a coach but sticking to it long-term without motivation that comes within is not likely – this way or another, but people with bad behaviour usually just drop out and stop attending, Wriothesley’s experiences show. Some people, who have defeated their demons already and are now at a place where sport has become a part of their lives, are usually the most willing to help others out whenever they are being asked – there’s just something sentimental and heartwarming about this that Wriothesley can’t name even to himself. ‘The Monsieur’ is also a person who makes him feel this way.
Turning back to the twenty-kilo dumbbell in his hand, Wriothesley almost continues his set when he hears the man’s steps hesitantly slowing down, then the small noise as he clears his throat.
“Hello, excuse me… I apologise for bothering you,” he starts politely, his voice a little indecisive.
Wriothesley puts down the dumbbell on the gym bench he was sitting on, and stands while he turns towards the man – it feels a little awkward to do this while he’s silent, but it would feel worse to stay seated while the other is standing.
“Hi there, I’m Wriothesley,” he offers his right hand as he would to anyone else who seems new to the gym he frequents. He remembers well how it felt to be the ‘new guy’ when he had less confidence, and he promised himself he’d always try his best to give back from what he got from a few older bodybuilders who helped him with his training when he was still clueless.
Not that he could ever think ‘the Monsieur’ is that – but he’s glad to assist if he’s able.
“Can I help you with something?” He adds the question, almost as encouragement (which somehow feels needed) next to his offered right.
The lilac eyes studying him soften in the slightest as the man shakes Wriothesley’s hand. His hold is firm and his immaculate skin is cold to the touch. This and his slender fingers are in contrast with Wriothesley’s scarred skin and warm hand.
“I’m Neuvillette,” ‘the Monsieur’ says, while his lilac eyes almost burn a hole in Wriothesley’s soul as he formally shakes his hand now. After letting go, he continues. “I’d like to ask a question – I am sorry for bothering you, but I couldn’t find the receptionist at the counter.”
“Yes, please, go ahead.”
“I was under the impression, from the website I read, that this gym had the Smith’s kind of squat rack with the sliding weight,” Neuvillette explains, his words measured, his tone flat. Then, to Wriothesley’s surprise, he averts his gaze as if whatever he’s about to say would be uncomfortable for him. “I’m new in the city, and I must admit, this was one of the reasons I chose this gym. The smaller ones are usually missing this machine.”
Wriothesley’s hand feels like it’s buzzing from where Neuvillette touched him, so to just do something with his limbs, he crosses his arms in front of his chest as he tries to understand the problem.
The equipment Neuvillette mentioned is often used by those who are either very unfamiliar with weights and need to learn the correct form or by those who need more stability for their weight loads – like during rehabilitation, or while attempting a bigger weight and a personal best. Looking at the man’s gracious, slender, yet strong physique, Wriothesley wonders which of these could be the reason in his case. But he knows better than to ask. He can also understand why someone would prefer a smaller and less frequented gym than the one where they are now, which is only empty due to the ungodly hour.
“The website isn’t wrong in general, but I think they forgot to update it. Last week one of the slides broke and now it’s away on repairs,” Wriothesley gestures at the place where the rack should be. Even on the carpeting, the edges of its place are visible. He may be just a member of this gym, but he’s here so often that he knows of all these. “I think it shouldn’t take too long for them to get it back, but apparently for today, you’ll have to train without that.”
“Ah, I see…” Neuvillette nods, trailing off with the last word.
“Well, we still have the good-old barbell and all kinds of weights. You look strong enough that it shouldn’t cause a problem, right?” Before he could stop himself, the words are out of his mouth and Wriothesley would like to slap himself in the face.
Even though he meant this as a compliment and encouragement, Neuvillette almost flinches at his words. Seeing this, he rubs the side of his eye with one hand and apologetically shakes his head a little. “I’m sorry,” Wriothesley apologises, only hoping his tone will convey how much he means it, “I shouldn’t have said that. What if I offer to spot you instead so you can let my rudeness slide?”
Neuvillette adjusts the sleeve of his shirt – as if there’d be anything to fix there – as he considers his answer. His reaction is subtle but Wriothesley has seen enough of the scum of humanity during his life on the streets and in his years of underground fighting, that he notices the details. If Wriothesley would need to bet, he’d say Neuvillette already figured out many different ways to substitute the weight training he was meant to do, and also, he is not one to accept help easily.
Yet, maybe because it’s important enough, when Neuvillette looks back up from his sleeve to Wriothesley, he nods a little, as hesitantly as he was when he approached. Then, he confirms it with words, saying in a clear voice, “Thank you for the offer, I’d like your help.” But just after he speaks the last word, Neuvillette tilts his head in the slightest and for a moment he almost has a guilty expression on his face. His upcoming words uncover the reason:
“What about I will let you finish your set while I set up the bar? I wouldn’t like to negatively influence your training.”
Nodding back as Wriothesley accepts the ‘terms’ of their agreement, he proceeds to turn to sit back down on his bench to finish his set. It can be his politeness or the smallest gentle smile Neuvillette sends Wriothesley’s way, but it makes him feel at ease. Even after he just embarrassed himself. Meanwhile...
Wriothesley is not one to trust strangers – or anyone in general – so it’s a new experience how it is to feel at peace with a stranger. How it is to not think about false reasons why Neuvillette would approach him, how Wriothesley could be missing the whole picture, or how the other person could want to start an interaction with him for their own benefit only.
As per their agreement, Wriothesley finishes his exercises on the bench with his heavy dumbbell, his face slightly red and the back of his shirt a little sweaty when he stands again. The sight of Neuvillette stretching one of his quadriceps greets Wriothesley, one foot in his hand and his knee bent as he stands on his other leg without any assistance. He looks perfectly balanced and not like someone who would truly need help because of the lack of stability during his squats. Wriothesley assumes Neuvillette needs a spotter as he will attempt a bigger weight today when bailing out from under the bar alone can be scary to do.
Once they face each other, Neuvillette stops the stretch, says another thank you, and goes to position while Wriothesley takes his place behind the man’s back. Wriothesley has his arms on Neuvillette’s sides when he goes under the bar, ready to help bail out from the weight if something goes wrong during the squat or to help get back up in case Neuvillette can’t get up with the weight on his own.
The weights on the bar aren’t too little, yet, Wriothesley is sure even before Neuvillette starts, that he will be able to do this on his own without assistance – Neuvillette did warm up with the empty bar as Wriothesley could see from the side of his eyes… So maybe, this is only his starting weight then. Still, judging by his physique and the fluid grace of his movements in general, Wriothesley just cannot imagine the world Neuvillette would truly need his help. At least not yet. However…
Neuvillette doesn’t seem like one to ask for help unless it’s truly needed, and Wriothesley is better than to judge by the cover.
Even if a part of him thinks it’s unnecessary, he stands behind Neuvillette while his attention is where it should be, ready to prevent a disaster as he has done on a few occasions before with others, in the same way, he was helped out as well.
Thankfully, his suspicions are proven to be right and his assistance is not just unneeded, but even if he’d have been asked to criticise Neuvillette’s form, he could only say it was perfect, and book-like, as it should be. Still, the seriousness of a spotter’s position takes over the part of his mind that ends up highly appreciating the sight of Neuvillette in front of him as he squats. Wriothesley tries his best to ignore the flowy white hair in front of him, and the slight pink colour on Neuvillette’s neck as he’s making an effort with his controlled movements, and… He doesn’t even dare to think about his legs.
After the first set and a tiny break, as Neuvillette doesn’t put more weight onto the bar, Wriothesley is almost sure he won’t either later. Suddenly, Wriothesley feels bad for wording his assumption earlier and he decides to stay quiet, doing a stretch on his own until Neuvillette goes to the bar after catching his breath for a few seconds on his own.
After the last rep of Neuvillette’s squats – he had done a higher count in multiple rounds, which may explain the lesser weight, but not the need for help – as the bar clicks back safely into its space, Wriothesley steps back, to let him lean out from below the equipment. Neuvillette turns towards him, his cheeks slightly flushed in red, a thin streak of sweat flowing on his temple.
“I am sorry if this felt like a waste of time for you,” he starts, then averts his gaze, making Wriothesley only hope his thoughts couldn’t be read – he is quite sure his expression didn’t betray him during the breaks when the other could see his face. Soon after, Neuvillette looks back up and adds, his tone honest, “Thank you for spotting me still.”
In response, Wriothesley lightly waves a hand, dismissing the first part. Hoping to set the record straight, before Neuvillette’s lilac gaze could leave Wriothesley’s blue one, he goes, “You’re welcome. I was rude enough that I had to offer – but I would have offered anyway, even if I didn’t make a comment I shouldn’t have. You didn’t inconvenience me and if you felt you needed it, then… Who am I to decide?”
He speaks honestly and his tone is kind – and it wins him a subtle smile. After the atmosphere of his current boxing club (or the former place in the ‘underworld’), Wriothesley realises, he misses these genuine interactions that so far he only got to experience in a few gyms he frequented since he started to make his body as strong as it is today.
Neuvillette nods a little before a rather neutral expression takes over his features. “Still, thank you again, Wriothesley,” he says formally. “I shall let you continue your training, and I will finish mine.”
Prompting the end of their interaction and the need to say goodbye politely must feel awkward for Neuvillette – Wriothesley catches him touching the sleeve of his shirt again at his wrist. Before they’d go to different machines or other types of gym equipment again, minding their own business, Wriothesley starts with the farewell, “Then, until next time. I hope to see you around!”
Neuvillette almost turns by the time Wriothesley speaks (as if maybe the lack of confirmation hit him in a bad way and he was ready to leave without a word…?) but then the farewell makes him stop in motion. Tilting his head slightly, before going to the other end of the gym where the stationary bikes are, Neuvillette answers in a tone that somehow feels melancholic:
“Maybe, you will. Have a nice day!”
Somehow, the encounter leaves Wriothesley with unease.
Changing his dumbbell to a slightly bigger one, to take his mind off from the ‘unsolved puzzle’ that has formed in his head, the only thing Wriothesley pays attention to is the burning of his muscles until he finishes his training… And then he decides to train some more – nothing is like brainless cardio where one’s lungs fight enough for air that it is hard to keep a good track of every thought. By the time he’s done, the gym has more people inside but he can’t catch a piece of Neuvillette’s white hair or elegant form anywhere.
After he finishes at the gym, the golden clock on the nearby square hits nine in the morning. Wriothesley was considering a run if the weather allowed, but he may have overdone his exercises as he decided on doing the impromptu cardio in the gym as well, so he skips on the run for now. Walking home while his clothes are sweaty – he was dumb enough not to bring a set of change and an extra towel to take a shower – is not his best experience ever, but thankfully, he lives close enough, and the weather is warm-ish now as the sun shines over the city, unlike during the early morning. Still, Wriothesley hopes this won’t make him sick in the next few days.
The stray cat he fed last night greets him meowing before he reaches his apartment building – a dingy, old place, but a place he can call home for now. A room that is only his, keys that only he has access to. After the life he had lived, however ratty his place looks now, it feels like heaven for him – a way to escape the remnants of his past.
Considering his age, Wriothesley is aware that he’s quite pathetic with his expectations – but he can’t say he didn’t try his best, with sweat and blood, to build himself a better life. Fate has been unkind to him – and he can’t blame anyone, nor does he want to.
He spends his day doing chores, and walking to the grocery store – he asks the old lady who lives in the next building if she needs anything. He stumbled upon her while she was carrying a heavy grocery bag the time he moved in; ever since that day, he has been asking her weekly if he should carry home something heavy for her. Even though he has never expected anything in return, she has given him a portion of homemade food on a few occasions by now, despite his best attempts to refuse – Wriothesley is not used to anyone caring about him like this, and it feels awkward.
Today is no different: after he brings her the heavy groceries she asked for, he arrives at his one-room apartment with a gifted box of warm soup that tastes the best he has ever had in his life. It always does when he gets it from her – it is given with love.
Wriothesley makes sure not to think too deeply into this for his own sake.
His building only has shared bathrooms and a common kitchen in the middle of every floor – it’s quite inconvenient, but for him, to have these accessible without the filthiness of the underground ring’s ‘athlete quarters’, is already a change for the better.
It’s late Sunday afternoon by the time he finishes everything he usually does to prepare for the next week of boxing training. He just arrived back at his apartment again from the old lady – he was giving back the washed food container with a wholehearted ‘thank you’ – when his phone buzzes with a notification. It’s a touch-screen model but one of the oldest that one can find on the market; Wriothesley bought it second-hand.
As he unlocks the device, a message from Sigewinne pops up telling him about how she was gifted two tickets to a ballet performance in three weeks at Fontaine’s national theatre, the Opera Epiclese. Despite the name, nowadays the magnificent building is used not just as an opera house but also as a theatre that is the home base of the country’s national ballet corporation, hosting most of their performances.
Wriothesley taps on the link Sigewinne sent him to check the poster of the performance. It’s a classic that even he has heard about, Swan Lake. As the poster loads in, he almost chokes on himself when the familiar lilac gaze from this morning looks back at him in the form of the leading male dancer’s face, his name written with letters as elegant as the man himself: Neuvillette.