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“I don’t know how many days it has been. I have lost track of the days, Your Grace. It is getting concerning.”
Wriothesley steps up to the door of the Palais and is escorted by Sedene to the double doors of Neuvillette’s office. With the transcendence from his Chief Justice position into the most powerful authority in all of Fontaine, there should be an obscene amount of work to be done yet no one is here to do it. It is dark, silent and in a state of stasis that he has never seen before in the Palais.
“We have tried his door plenty but he only dismisses us each time. Not even Clorinde is able to get to him and Furina is nowhere to be found. The Palais is in a disarray that we have never seen before and it has escalated since this morning when he relayed a message that the Palais is to be closed from the public and all public officials are relieved from their positions until further notice.”
The Duke takes in the information before turning to Sedene to reassure the uniformed melusine, “Leave it to me, you should head back first.”
He watches her skip her steps away as she exits the Palais, the creepy silence filling the room once more. Gently tapping the door, he reaches out softly.
“It’s me.”
Silence.
“I’m here, Neuvillette.”
He hears a soft thud coming from the room.
“I’m not leaving until I see you.”
Another thud; like weak footsteps over carpet, meek and fleeted.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
Wriothesley softly knocks on the door again. The trailing steps seem closer before it comes to a complete halt, almost as if he is right behind this door.
“... but I am here for you now.”
Then there it is—the creaking of a door handle echoing through the deafening room, the assurance that he is granted permission to enter. And as he steps in, the room is hauntingly muted; the usual calming blues now painted with an eerie coldness as though amplified by the neverending rain tapping against his windows. The glowing warmth of the lamps have dimmed out completely, leaving only traces of moonlight lighting his way to a visitor’s couch where he could barely make out the shadow of a silhouette in the distance. As he carefully approaches, he finds a familiar blue coat in a rumple on the carpet, finding it irresistible to retrieve discreetly to set it on the armrest.
He is close enough that he hears it, the shallow breaths of another person reaching his ears that his heart aches almost immediately. He then pulls his own jacket off his shoulder, dropping the coat onto the cushion as he slowly walks to the silhouette hiding behind the other side of the couch arm.
Silently weeping he stills, and Wriothesley ever so gently reaches his hand out to run his fingers through those white and blue strands he is always so fond of, caressing as tenderly as he could.
Neuvillette doesn’t speak, but the warmth from Wriothesley’s hand is proven too inviting to ignore as he leans into it. The reciprocation makes the Duke smile, finding more courage to nestle himself next to his partner, making sure their sides touch seamlessly, reaffirming his presence to Neuvillette. Wriothesley continues to brush his fingers through his hair while gradually moving his hand down to his partner’s shoulders. He is met with no resistance to his delight, for then he cups his hand firmly around Neuvillette’s shoulder and lightly tugs him closer to his embrace, removing him from his lonely stance so he registers his presence entirely.
“I am here,” tenderly the Duke spoke.
“You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to. But you are not alone anymore.”
Wriothesley feels a soft quiver in his arms but he doesn’t interrupt it. Instead he finds himself leaning his head over Neuvillette’s, feeling the dull ache in his heart watching his love crumble so devastatingly. It is not unheard of, nor is he expecting Neuvillette to be indestructible, but watching his state right now and imagining how utterly alone he has been these days is unbearable. And while he knows he has been attending to urgent affairs in the Fortress since the prophesied day lapsed, he wished he could’ve dropped everything just to be here for Neuvillette sooner, so he wouldn’t have to bear this brokenness alone by himself.
While the pain is unspeakable, Neuvillette finds himself like a moth to a flame. Wriothesley’s warmth reminded him that he is still in the world of the living, that he is here because he is witness to what has happened in the Opera Epiclese. That the sting he feels so immensely is proof that he will always be here to vindicate Furina and all suspicions pointed at her because this is his nation now, and he has so much more to do to carry on Focalor’s justice.
Yet try as he might to rationalise how all of this is according to her will, the sight of the execution doesn’t escape his mind, much to the weight of everlasting role in the Opera Epiclese ever so vehemently suffocates him. The intensity of these human emotions are foreign and roiling, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable to their relentless assaults that he shuts himself in helplessly.
So much so that he finds his hand clinging onto Wriothesley’s shirt, repositioning himself so he could press his head over the Duke’s chest, specifically over the resounding beat of his heart. Despite the slow rhythm calming him down just a little, it remains a subtle reminder that he is only alive because of her noble sacrifice.
For the humans that she loves, that he too, has come to adore as well.
“I don’t know what happened but…”
Neuvillette finds himself drawn to Wriothesley’s voice as he looks at him for the first time tonight, his soft blue eyes gazing at him so kindly as always.
“I am glad to still be alive so I can hold you right now.”
Whether it could be the heightened hydro sensitivity since the day he was returned his powers or that he witnessed death before his eyes, Neuvillette found the once-broken link between his emotion and expression ameliorated because tears start falling out of his eyes as he stares blankly at Wriothesley, almost as if he is unaware of it. The sensation of how wet his eyes became was almost unusual to him, but it didn’t go unnoticed.
Wriothesley gently brushes the tears away from the corner of his eyes, holding Neuvillette even tighter in his arms. His body felt softer, as though he hadn’t been eating, or that he could disintegrate in his arms, either of which is surreal and the least ideal. Looking even closely at him now, his shirt is dishevelled from its usual crisp and his ribbon tie is slipping off the tip of his coiffure, the colour almost drained from his face at this rate. And this cannot go on, at least Wriothesley is adamant about it, that he picks him up off the floor to sit him on the more comfortable cushion, placing his scented jacket over him.
“Wait a second.”
Not that he is walking out of his sight but Wriothesley found it prompt to tell him while making his way over to Neuvillette’s desk, familiar with where he places his brush that he often uses before presenting himself at the Opera Epiclese. Now looking at the brush once more in his hand, he realises this is his first time actually doing something like this for Neuvillette and perhaps in hindsight, there is no better timing than it is right now. Tracing his steps back, he smiles a little at the sullen man, then wrapping his warmth around him once more as he lifts his long white strands over his thighs, carefully removing the hair tie before starting to untangle the edges loosely.
Neuvillette doesn’t resist. Or perhaps he is just fixated on the scent wafting from Wrtiothesley’s jacket that makes him feel safe.
And strange as it may sound, it turns out to be more therapeutic than he could ever imagine. Wriothesley moves the brush higher up and makes for straight strokes down, a rather difficult task for an unskilled hand like his, but nonetheless he works through it. Rather than trying to find out what exactly happened that day, his place is exactly here.
“You weren’t kidding when you once said fixing your hair is one of the most time-consuming parts of your day.”
And when Neuvillette doesn’t respond to it, Wriothesley buries his face into his locks and whispers, “But I don’t mind it at all.”
He feels another tremble from the smaller frame against his body again, pleased.
Content with his masterpiece, he reaches for the ribbon and decisively fastens the knot right under his nape, far above from its usual spot. He has been particularly curious about a different style, but it still looks unceasingly beautiful on him. Then twirling the ponytail over Neuvillette’s shoulders, Wriothesley pulls his back against his chest now, enveloping his lithe arms under his while resting his chin over his shoulders. He rubs his thumb pads over his—something he’s done while trying to soothe his partner’s nerves, leaving Neuvillette sighing in it, the tension gradually losing its grip.
“You have really soft hands come to think of it.”
Wriothesley continues kneading his pads. He doesn’t reason with his administrations like he usually does. Mindlessly doing this that felt like the norm to them seems like the best way to get through to him. Like how he slides his fingers in between Neuvillette’s, intertwining between the gaps until he gets an assuring grip on them.
He isn’t blind to his Grace’s efforts, nor is his heart made of stone. And little by little he could feel the bitter sorrow in his heart slip away, a smidge of reprieve allowing him to breathe just by that much, quivering at his touches. Like a drop of water on his parched lips, just the presence of his Grace being in his room brings life back into his space. The feeling of his fingers gliding along his, just mild enough that it tickles the surface of his skin to bring him back from spacing out, each time lingering longer in earnest yearning. A salvation in the night he needs, but he is too afraid to say.
He shouldn’t be allowed mercy, at least not so soon.
“Neuvillette…”
Now he couldn’t resist the urge to turn. All these wants bursting out after having a taste of it—knowing that His Grace promised to stay, and that he would never abandon him makes it harder and harder to stay faithful to his pain. So he reaches out for him, sensing he is about to slip into the void again, hoping this time he would catch his fall. Someone to break the cycle, to call unto him that he is needed now more than ever, that his delicate soul is far too precious to be punished for the sins he puts onto himself.
And Wriothesley does so, cradling him by his waist as he pushes Neuvillette up to him, locking eyes with him so his eyes don’t fade away. His crystalline eyes didn’t falter, and the Duke could hardly resist them like he always couldn’t.
“Shall we walk in the rain?”
Rain. Sounds like music to his ears.
“We’ll walk into the night, endless. There is no end for us. And it’ll just be a dance for us.”
Wriothesley smiles softly at him once more. And this time he doesn’t hesitate before he closes the distance between their lips.
Neuvillette felt his lips tremble—such unbearable warmth flooding every fibre of his being.
“...Wriothesley.” He finally speaks his name as His Grace pulls away briefly.
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.” Yet for good measure, the Duke felt the need to remind him that he isn’t here for his secrets.
And Neuvillette knows that; is thankful for that. So he does the only thing he knows he can do right now, stealing every selfish moment he can with His Grace before he has to become the Chief Justice that he is once more.
“...thank you,” Neuvillette whispers, his cracked voice slipping further away from himself, “...Will you dance with me in the rain forevermore?”
To that the Duke already has made his choice since the day he has set his eyes upon this man. So it naturally made him chuckle, knowing nothing will ever stop him from loving him the way he already does, and how it took Neuvillette this long to ask him to do the same. And while his time may not exceed the five hundred long years Neuvillette has already embarked on his journey, it doesn’t stop Wriothesley from leaving his footprints in the sands of time.
“Until the end of time.”
His answer seems almost a foul play because Neuvillette knows time is so very relative for them, but for Wriothesley to pick a metaphor is delicate yet meaningless, he couldn’t bring his heart to doubt his words. It’s almost made to be unfair, but His Grace loves playing games his way irregardless. He could pick a fight with him about their different expectancies however it would still be pointless, wouldn’t it? How his emotions fight to subdue the painful rationality within him; to not fight to win in stark contrast to his present turmoil yet only seeking the timelessness behind his words and what they infer.
Yet spite reigns dominant in the split void, “...but what comes after that?”
Almost intuitively, His Grace speaks without a lick of hesitation, as if he’s been practising this in front of a mirror over a thousand times, “Then I’ll come back, and we’ll dance a new tune every time.”
And this shatters his guarded resolve completely.
But Wriothesley catches him faithfully as he promised.
Neuvillette didn’t know how messy cries can become. How triggering different words in his mind can be doesn’t make any sense to him, but the words His Grace spoke of makes him slip up more often than not, and it racks up tenfold when he applies his sensibility into them perhaps because it wouldn’t make sense—because it couldn’t.
“Too much?” But Wriothesley only chuckles, taking full responsibility for his words as he lovingly kisses Neuvillette’s tears away.
Yet the smile behind his own eyes isn’t without its fair share of hurt; one could almost say he is more aware of that reality than most by how powerless he is to its descendance.
“No,” Neuvillette closes his eyes to welcome his sun-glazed kiss, muting all doubts out of his mind even for a second, “Only you would be this brazen to say it.”
His confidence reinvigorates the Duke likewise, pushing muling problems away so they stop wasting his time. Yet while he’d rather spend his time coddling like this, there is certainly something else that is better fitted to end their night together if he knows Neuvillette the way he does. Because he could see his love looking at him in silent expectation, as though picking his brain to see if he would make the ask on his behalf.
A waltz in the dead of night. A paradise in the cascading rainfall.
“So…” though Wriothesley couldn’t hold back from another taste of his lips, “Walk with me, mon coeur ?”
The mild endearment made Neuvillette blush uncontrollably. But the good kind, for he finally found the oasis he has been searching for. Still gripping onto His Grace’s jacket, he throws it around his shoulders and alas, curls his lips meekly at his love. That brief smile only made Wriothesley hold his hand tighter, much of it an attempt to clutch his own heart the same way by virtue of his pulchritude.
“Always with you, my forevermore.”