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Despite the fact that Wriothesley, many in his life, even the stoic Clorinda and the no less stoic Neuvillette, said that he was missing out on a lot by not appearing in Epiclese at the performances of musicians and illusionists, as the people said, until you see it, you won’t believe it.
In general, the reason why he found himself in a crowded hall was, firstly, Sigewinne, who had long wanted to get somewhere outside the Fortress of Meropide, and melusine was quite sweet, helpful and unhappy in her desire to watch performing on the big stage, and not read it in the newspaper, so Wriothesley could not refuse her: not when she asked this in front of all his subordinates, making the most pitiful face in the world. Little manipulator. The second reason was Lynette, and it was surprising how quickly all the misunderstandings were resolved with her and monsieur Freminet and how slowly they had been resolved so far with their elder brother, who even now, seeing him as a guest among all this crowd, sent him such a look that, if Wriothesley were not Wriothesley, he would have been worried for his life. The look was fleeting, then the music started playing, and the twins, clearly accustomed to being on stage as the main stars, fell into their roles: a cheerful and playful magician and his aloof assistant.
— Wow! — Sigewinne enthusiastically leans against the back of the chair in front of her, and Wriothesley looks warningly at the man, who has already turned around and wants to reprimand her for such enthusiasm. The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, despite the fact that he rarely appears in public, is still known: especially among those who now filled the hall, famous, rich, with a history of blood going back centuries, so he immediately turns pale, apologizes, and returns all his attention to the stage, as it should be. — Look, look, a duck without a head!
The audience erupts with horror and laughter when the bird actually runs back and forth, decapitated, when Lyney laughs, picking it up in his arms and with a deft movement of his hand, putting head back in place. Wriothesley tries to peer at this moment into his wrists, into his fingers, to understand how this happened, but his movements — practiced and fast — do not allow him to catch anything other than the magic itself. Lyney solemnly raises the quacking bird higher, declaring that there were no casualties today, laughs — and Wriothesley fixes his gaze on this expression on his face. Just as he gets attached to his proudly upturned nose when a magician catches bullets, playfully and simply, with a plate, fingers, mouth — a completely impossible phenomenon, but he no longer tries to figure out how these tricks work, accepting the fact that it’s hard to see any gaps in his skill. In the next trick, Lynette evaporates from the stage to then appear in the middle of the red carpet leading into the hall, after her the things of some of the guests evaporate too, ending up in Lyney's hands, under his hat, in his pockets — and Lynette serenely carries them to the enthusiastically sighing audience. Wriothesley himself sighs — not enthusiastically, but rather anxiously, when Lynette is sawn apart on stage, but her head, speaking and expressing nothing but stage detachment, makes his calm down: as does her completely intact body, when the box is connected again.
— For the next trick we need a wonderful demoiselle! — Lyney announces, walking into the stage surrounded by spotlights. — And I know that I have no right to call any of the demoiselles more beautiful than others, you are all beautiful, — he is turning his back to the audience. — Michelle! Point the spotlights into the hall and choose someone, I’m just throwing the responsibility onto him, don’t you mind?
The audience laughs — and a smile also touches Wriothesley's lips: quite the action that he could expect from Lyney. He smiles until he is blinded by the spotlights.
— Michelle! Well, isn't this a demoiselle! - Lyney turns to him, and Wriothesley, who has put palm to forehead to shield himself from the bright light, sees the smugness on his face. Such a small revenge? Well, he's seen worse. — Your Grace, is there a lady near you who is ready to come down here to the stage?
Wriothesley is ready to expose any possible lady who is near him, but Sigewinne leans towards him to be in the spotlight and waves hand to attract attention:
— I am a demoiselle!
— Then please take the stage, young lady, — Lyney bows, inviting her, and Wriothesley involuntarily clenches his fists tighter. Sigewinne was the one who shot; Snezhevich held a grudge against her almost more than against Wriothesley himself. And now, when he helps her up the steps to the stage, when she smiles, happy and ready for tricks, he still involuntarily grows cold inside. What if this is one evil plan to get revenge? He looks at Lynette, relaxed and holding up props, and in moments like this he can't help but think the worst.
That Lyney is now taking off his top hat, inviting her to look inside and show her that everything is empty inside. What could be inside? Something explosive? Something poisonous? Would this person take this kind of revenge? Would Lynette do this, lie in their correspondence about desserts and teas, apologize, and then present something like this? He simultaneously reproaches himself for such thoughts, but cannot help but think: on the stage are Fatui, not just Fatui, but those who have long since left House of the Hearth, and one of them is the future Harbinger. He can't help but start remembering the worst, and the temperature around him seems to drop, driven by his mood and the Cryo Vision on his jacket. Sigewinne enthusiastically places the empty top hat on her head, and the room begins counting down from ten.
Ten.
Lyney waves hand, pulling out a black magician's wand out of nowhere.
Nine.
Sigewinne closes her eyes, counting along with everyone else.
Eight.
Lynette moves her hands through the air like a conductor, not meeting his gaze.
Seven.
Wriothesley finds himself clutching the armrests tighter so as not to break out of his place at that very second.
Six, five, four, — the audience chants, waiting for magic. Lyney raises his head for a moment, meets his gaze, and then rolls eyes, still smiling rehearsed stage smile.
Three.
Two.
One.
Sigewinne pulls the trembling top hat off her head, turns it over in hands — and a dozen or more pigeons burst out of the hat, rising up and taking seats around the hall.
Wriothesley slumps in his chair, feeling like an idiot, but he would feel worse if something happened and he wasn't prepared. Lyney calls Sigewinne a true magician, asks for a round of applause, and Lynette escorts her to her seat, passing the melusine into Wriothesley's hands and politely bowing her head before returning to the stage. There Lyney examines the hat, saying that it is somehow heavy, and shakes a huge fat black cat onto the stage, and sighs of tenderness are heard in the audience for this tailed creature in the hat, which refuses to participate in the tricks and jumps off the stage.
— He’s very angry, — Sigewinne whispers to him, leaning over the armrest. Wriothesley becomes wary, leaning closer to her. — He’s a good magician and doesn’t ruin the show, but I can see how disgruntled he is that we’re here. If you want to apologize to him, then you should seize the moment today
— Don’t you want to take a moment and apologize if he’s not happy with the presence of both of us? — Wriothesley whispers back. Sigewinne chuckles arrogantly:
— Just come and apologize for both of us.
People in the back row displeasedly hiss at them, asking them not to distract from the show, so Sigewinne sits more comfortably in her chair, Wriothesley straightens up to sit in his, and over the next half hour nothing happens that could make them nervous as in those ten seconds. Lyney performs several fairy tale tricks, entertaining the audience with satires of well-known situations in Fontaine, making jokes while communicating with those sitting in the front row, once pulling out Freminet, who is obviously a frequent guest on stage between his brother and sister, just so that he can help hold all the props that will be needed. Over time, the props on the stage become less and less, the audience is having fun, asking Lyney to do mentalist tricks, and at this point Wriothesley even understands how it works. One by one, the doves return to the bottomless cylinder. One by one, the lights aimed at the stage begin to go out.
— Rosseland! — Lyney calls, as it turns out, the cat, and tragically throws up her hands, sighing. — Apparently, even he was tired enough from today’s performance, dear guests, and decided to just run away.
The guests protest their boredom by standing up during the bow and applauding, and Wriothesley actually tries to stand with everyone, only to be met with an indignant mr-r-rew under his foot. While everyone is clapping, he looks down, seeing that same huge black cat who managed to wrap its body around his shoe and was now looking very angrily at Wriothesley with his attempts to move.
— Maybe you’ll let go of my leg? — Wriothesley asks the unfortunate animal (it is definitely happy, given its size and impudence, but how else can you scold it?), trying to grab it under its belly and under its paws, but it seems to melt in his hands. Sigewinne giggles, standing next to him and watching his suffering, as the cat lies on his back, exposing his stomach, and Wriothesley freezes, not at all understanding what to do with it. — Just give yourself into my hands.
— Oh, so that’s where he is, — Lynette’s voice says above his head. — Just a second, I'll call Lyney, this is his cat.
— Ugh-h-h, then I'll go! We’ll meet later in Fortress of Meropide, your grays, — Sigewinne leaves him to the mercy of fate, disappearing from the hall faster than her short legs should be able to carry her. The cat, when he try to pick him up again, lets out a dramatic howling meow, and that’s when the owner decides to appear:
— What are you doing with him?! — Lyney hisses in exactly the same cat-like manner, approaching through the ranks, apparently to tell Wriothesley everything that is on the tip of his tongue, but as soon as he sees the cat curled around his leg, he quite sincerely sighs tiredly. — Rosseland, stop exposing your belly to just anyone. Come here.
Wriothesley doesn’t quite understand how he couldn’t hold the cat with his big hands, and how Lyney succeeds the first time, but, on the other hand, Lyney is a magician, and his skill is enough to make objects disappear. It should be enough to hold this pampered, smooth animal.
— Lynette said you wanted to talk. I’m listening, — Lyney says in silence after some time, standing expectantly near his chair. — If you want to ask me to court her, I advise you to immediately abandon this idea, because my dear sister deserves someone better.
This is... Unexpected choice of topic.
— I didn’t intend to court Lynette, — Wriothesley begins carefully.
— Then why are you here?
— Because she invited me. And because Sigewinne wanted to see your perform.
— So you don’t want to talk? — a smile spreads across Lyney's face: cloying and sweet, can’t tell what’s hidden behind it if you don’t look closely from the very beginning. — Then I don’t dare detain you, your grace, you are probably being waited for.
Wriothesley clicks tongue, extending hand to him to stop him, but his fingers freeze centimeters from the forearm: Lyney tenses up before the touch, like a spring on the trigger of a pistol. And relieves this tension by shifting his shoulders as soon as Wriothesley removes his hand, as if brushing off a hovering threat.
— Do you still want to talk, your grace? — Rosseland twists in his arms, trying to escape, but Lyney squeezes the fur on the back of his neck, by the place where mother cats usually drag their kittens, and he immediately stops his resistance.
— Yes, I would prefer it to be a less crowded place, — Wriothesley nods in agreement, turning around: Fontaine’s people were not polite enough to allow personal space. It would not be surprising if one of the Steam Bird reporters was hiding somewhere under the chairs right now, having managed to come up with a new sensation for the newspaper. — Is this possible?
Lyney smiles at the guests, waving his hand goodbye — it looks quite sincere, much more sincere than when the same smile is directed at Wriothesley.
— Yes, your grace. Come to the dressing room if you really want to discuss something with me.
The dressing room is a small door accessed by a staircase behind the stage, not small enough to prevent Wriothesley from squeezing through, but small enough that he has to duck his head to get inside. Lyney has no problem with this, given his height, snorts derisively at how he has to bend over, and unceremoniously throws the cat into the top hat, as if it was his rightful place. Lynette, who has let her hair down and is now trying to comb it, points her ears in their direction and asks:
— Should I go out?
— No, dear sister, if his grace wants to speak, then he will have to speak in the presence of both of us, — Lyney smiles brightly at her. The girl sighs, looks at Wriothesley and tilts her head to her shoulder, still trying to comb through the strands of varnish stuck together with a brush:
— Thank you for the recommendations, your grace. The Custard was too sweet even for me, but it was a pleasant experience to drink something like that.
— Some people prepare custard with less added sugar, replacing it with cinnamon; perhaps you will like this option more.
— I’ll add that to my plan before I visit the tea salon, — she nods, rising from her chair, walking over to Lyney, who is looking at Wriothesley with an almost obvious threat, carefully touches his shoulder and shakes her head towards the door. — I’ll still go out while you’re talking, otherwise it seems to me that I’m disturbing you a little.
Lyney doesn't even stop her from saying such things, although he is usually the first to rush to sister's defense, even if it is a defense against her feeling out of place. Wriothesley watches as the door closes, as the magician begins to nervously shuffle the cards, doing it not like a normal human, but so that they fold like an accordion and crackle between his fingers. Lyney clearly doesn't trust him, given the intense look in his eyes, and Wriothesley himself has obvious problems trusting anyone, so the first thought that runs through his head is whether cards can be used as weapons and Is Lyney reckless enough to decide to attack here?
Lyney assembles the deck and slams it on the table, forcing the cards to line up. Obviously not enough.
— Your grace, I will ask you to start speaking.
— I was waiting for permission, — the smile on Lyney’s face breaks at this statement. — This is about what happened in the Fortress of Meropide.
— Have you come to admit your guilt? Very noble.
— I have come to let you know that while I am sorry that I had to put you in a situation of choice, I would do it again if it was for the safety of Fontaine and its citizens, — Wriothesley pulls the chair towards him, sitting down and finding himself slightly lower than that arrogantly raised nose. — This is not an admission of guilt, but I hope that we can come to an understanding in this situation.
— Understanding in a situation where you decided to endanger the lives of my brother and sister? What do you expect, your grace? The fact that I am an all-forgiving, kind idiot who will forget this moment? — irritation seeps through Lyney’s voice, and this is better than his attempts to maintain the image. Honesty has always been easier to work with than pretense. Even if honesty meant open distrust and resentment of his mere presence nearby. Wriothesley shakes his head in disagreement:
— I apologized to Freminet and to Lynette, so I will assume that in this situation I have already received my forgiveness. Unless you consider yourself to know better than they do what is worth forgiving and what is not, — Lyney definitely doesn't like the wording, he definitely doesn't like him, and the moment when the mask with a doll's smile cracks, giving way to a face full of cold rage, happens so quickly, as if a completely different person has taken its place. He takes a few steps towards, taking advantage of the height difference, and Wriothesley leans back in his chair, raising his head. — So I apologize to you: but only for forcing you to choose, and I speak about understanding, because I am sure if you were in my place, you would have pulled off exactly the same plan in an attempt to obtain information.
— Do you think saying that I’m just like you sounds like an apology? — Lyney frowns — it’s still more pleasant than a learned smile.
— Yes. Because you will look at the situation from the other side and understand my motives. If I told you that I regret what happened, would you believe it?
Lyney looks like he could growl at him, but he doesn't. They spend a full minute in silence until Lyney crosses his arms and turns away from him, walking back to the table. Wriothesley watches him mainly to catch if something does throw in his face, but he can admit that the magician is pleasant to watch in this yellowish light in front of the mirror, when in the reflection can see that he is trying to calm down his twitching eyelid after talking to him. Unfortunately, he is also visible in the reflection, because when Wriothesley grins, Lyney turns aggressively towards him, narrowing his eyes:
— Okay, — he says. — Apology accepted, your grace. Can you leave here now?
Testing the patience of someone who is about to rush in your face, in the best feline traditions, is not the type of entertainment that Wriothesley prefers, despite the fact that many will probably disagree, so he nods, gets up from his seat, and pulls his jacket away from the cat's paw, which was trying to cling to it with a claw from the top hat, and moves away to the door:
— Yes, sure. Thanks for your time, Lyney.
— If someone addresses you respectfully, your grace, be kind enough to address others in the same way, — he finally throws at him in the back. Wriothesley turns around, already opening the door and letting Lynette, who has conquered her hair, inside:
— Maybe you should just address me without such respect? Good evening to you two.
— Have a nice evening, Wriothesley, — Lynette waves goodbye, and Wriothesley catches her brother rushing towards her, waving his arms in his direction before the door closes behind him. He chuckles to himself as he heads towards the exit from the deserted Epiclese. What he had learned from small contacts with Lynette about discussing tea and snacks to eat with it, Lyney had a trait of trying to present himself as perfect, brilliant, adorable and kind toward loved ones, liked ones, closed ones. Wriothesley was definitely not in this category, but it also gave him an incredible opportunity to see some kind of honesty from that man. Even if honesty meant trying to hurt him and restraining himself from trying to attack: Wriothesley in his life preferred any truth, even the crudest, to the most beautiful lie.
The brutal truth: people still move on with their lives after the fulfillment of the Prophecy, still seeking entertainment and joy, even if the world has shattered and claimed the lives of those unfortunate enough to escape. You have to come to terms with this. Also the brutal truth: Lyney was never a simple person, and Wriothesley was not a simple person, so it is not surprising that they got along with such difficulty. In order to get together, it is necessary to grind off the incompatible edges, and they were not even at the level of trust to try to do this. Wriothesley knows nothing about Lyney other than that he is a magician, Lynette's brother, that he grew up in the House of Hearth and will at some point take Knave's place among the Harbingers. Lyney probably knows no more about him, despite all Fatui's intelligence services. Although now he is interested in asking: what did they manage to dig up on him? He might not have to think about whether he was a pureblood from Fontaine or consider the idea of touching the Primordial Sea if someone already had information about who he was at the very beginning of his life before he ended up in foster family.
Clorinde, after his meeting with Lyney, chuckles, shaking her head, and sips tea:
— Actually, he wanted to meet you before all this. You know, Lynette said she hadn't heard him be so enthusiastic about anyone in a long time. Well, then the Traveler appeared, so don’t be too arrogant, — she chuckles, holding out her hand to the profiteroles, which she herself brought to visit. — But I was thinking about how badly you screwed up that he started looking at you with such hostility.
— Thank you for your support, Clorinde, I always knew you were on my side, — Wriothesley says sarcastically. The woman shrugs her shoulders. — I didn’t see anything from him towards me except hostility.
— You knew it would turn out this way when you planned this chantage, so don’t feel sorry for yourself.
— I didn’t even intend to, still — always thank you for your support.
— You’re welcome, — Clorinde doesn’t look offended. They know each other enough to react calmly to this. — By the way, delicious tea.
— This is a choice from Liyue, obviously it will be delicious, — Wriothesley immediately preens, forgetting his previous dissatisfaction. Clorinde smiles subtly, shaking her head.
Wriothesley thinks Clorinde has made a big mistake, or he has really messed up, because the only looks he gets from Lyney are contemptuous, suspicious, mocking, and downright aggressive. They change only during performances, to which Lynette continues to invite him, and Sigewinne continues to beg him to go, and now he has no excuses: now that he does not need to build a ship to save people, he really has much more free time. Now it’s enough to take Lyney's younger brother, Freminet, meet the mechanics (and receive a threat from Lyney himself so that he doesn’t even think about pestering him, although he didn’t intend to?), sit and have tea with Linette and Clorinde, to meet Neuvillette and Lady Furina, whom he now often visited in her new home at the publishing house. There really was enough time for a lot, and everyone who could take advantage of it, even the prisoners who offered him a rest: either to try to get away while he was gone, or to really want the best for him.
Even Rosseland, who had a habit of ending up at his feet every time at the end of the performance. At least Wriothesley wasn't trying to crush him by trying to stand up.
— Are you here again, you silly creature? — Lyney sighs, approaching after the next performance: an involuntary tradition that he had to acquire, and picking up the cat in hie arms like a baby. — Do you really like the performances so much that you keep coming here? — He suddenly looks up at Wriothesley. From the latest updates — he really does not address him by his count title, either out of spite, or out of principle, or really listened to the advice.
— Yes, — Wriothesley nods honestly, rising from his seat. — Is this surprising? Your name is heard throughout Teyvat.
— It seemed to me that with your work there should be much less free time. I’m not asking about money: obviously you’re paid well if you’re here every week, — Lyney rolls his light purple eyes, and Wriothesley can’t help but laugh at the drama:
— I have unexpectedly a lot of free time now, so I’m taking advantage of this opportunity.
Lyney looks at him carefully, as if this phrase is worth checking for lies, and shakes his head: his styled hair moves springy to the beat:
— Lucky. At least someone can rest after all this.
It sounds suddenly weary, and before that moment of honesty dissolves as if it never happened, Wriothesley arches an eyebrow and asks:
— Is there really such a rush at performances that you don’t have time to rest?
— It’s as if all there is in my life are performances, — Lyney clicks his tongue and winces: from the taste of the truth, maybe? — Good night, Duke, — he says goodbye with a smile, the one that Wriothesley has already come to hate: polite and affectionate, as if there was nothing human behind it, but only tinsel and sparkles, and, without giving anything to answer, carries his magical cat into the dressing room, slamming the door so as to scare anyone who decides to go inside today. It's a pity. He was just about to knock and clarify.
— Ah? — Lynette looks up in surprise while tasting tea in one of the salons they have chosen for meetings. — Yes, Fatui is involved in the restoration of Fontaine, but I cannot tell more: it is prohibited.
— I don’t require any specifics, it just became interesting. If your brother started complaining about life, and even to me, it means that there is a really serious load there, — Wriothesley more comfortably throws his leg over his knee and receives a push in the ribs with elbow. — Hey!
— Behave decently in a public place, — chuckles Clorinde, who has joined the tea party. — Lynette, don’t answer him until he sits normally in public.
— I don’t think that’s a reason not to answer.
— Thank you, Lynette, — Wriothesley sincerely nods at her, looking indignantly at his friend. She doesn't look at him, though, handing Lynette the snacks she ordered and apparently distracting him from the question. — Hey!
— These are radical measures of socialization, — he hears the amusement in her voice and cannot help but groan at this, sitting down as is customary in this unhappy polite society. — You see, it works.
— Actually, Lyney doesn’t talk about it that much, — Lynette takes a sip of her tea, popping... Tenth? Cake in mouth. How does this even fit? — This is his mission. Again, I can't go into detail, but it has to do with his position in Fatui. Me and Freminet and others are involved in this matter, but not as much as he is.
The position in Fatui is a future Harbinger. Wriothesley lowers his head onto his fist, making himself more comfortable in the chair that was not quite comfortable enough for his long legs, and ignoring another push to the side from Clorinde. The obvious answer is that since Arlecchino had temporarily left Fontaine, he had to take her place, calm down all their subordinates and make it work. He remembers the fatigue that momentarily appeared on his bright face and hums thoughtfully: after having to communicate with people all day and organize their actions, Lyney still has the strength to speak in front of people? Masochism. After a working day, usually just want to hide from people somewhere far away. Lynette pushes the appetizer plate towards him and frowns when he refuses it:
— It's tasty.
— Just suddenly lost my appetite.
— Worried about my brother? — Wriothesley chokes on the tea he managed to sip:
— Me? No. I was just surprised when he showed that he was tired. It was too sudden.
— Well, he’s honest with you, — she shrugs, either resigned or sad. — I already told you, but Lyney tries to be as good as possible if he likes a person, so I, for example, didn’t even know that he was tired. Although I guessed, considering that he leaves home earlier than everyone else in the morning and after performances or rehearsals he still sits and writes something.
This sounds... Sad. Wriothesley is almost ashamed of her: for being able to touch the side of her family that she is not allowed to:
— Well, this happens solely because he can’t stand me.
— Sometimes even that kind of influence is a good influence, — Lynette notes philosophically, putting down her cup. — Would you like to come visit us?
— And what will this give? That I'll be kicked out in the first few minutes?
— I’ll tell him not to kick you out if you're my guest.
Wriothesley rocks thoughtfully in his chair, Clorinde, clearly resigned to his lack of manners, simply turns her attention to Lynette, discussing the latest news from the Steam Bird about the realism of the photographs. Clorinde doesn't even react when he puts it down on all fours with a thud, saying that he'll think about such an invitation, but when he tries to steal the cakes from the plate that she has moved closer to her, he receives a noticeable electric shock. Not fair! Lynette shares it with him anyway, but he feels insulted until the very end of their tea meeting.
He agrees to come visit — too quickly in his own opinion, but he doesn't get any strange looks, just a formal invitation, address and time, so it doesn't bother him. Evening, of course, given that they are all busy working during the day, but when Wriothesley approaches the house near the main street and knocks on the door, then, unexpectedly, Lyney opens it for him, and makes such an astonished face that it becomes clear that no one warned him about anything.
— What are you doing here? — he asks, not having time to collect his emotions.
— I'm invited by Lynette. For dinner, I guess.
Lyney frowns as he stands in the doorway, leaning on the door frame. This is such expected behavior from him that Wriothesley isn't even surprised. But the clothes were unexpected: long, worn-out trousers and a shirt with rolled up sleeves. Even knowing that he couldn’t always wear the image of a magician, it was surprising to see him in different clothes. Lyney obviously doesn’t like the look on himself, because irony appears on his face:
— I already told you not to dare even think about courting my sister.
— I already answered that this was never my intention.
— Then why the hell is she inviting you? — Lyney sounds so puzzled, as if this really doesn’t add up in his head.
— We’re friends, — Wriothesley replies, and he just rolls his eyes and let him inside. Obviously, despite all his desire to protect, Lyney was not going to go against the wishes of his sister, although he really wanted to. — Where is everyone? — he looks around the empty house, and hears a chuckle in response:
— They will be late. Freminet's Pers attracted attention in the shop of a master who makes toys. It's not far from here, so he'll be back soon. Lynette is on a mission. I think there’s no need to explain to you what kind of mission it is, since you’re friends, — Lyney reports dryly, waving his hand and inviting his to sit on a soft sofa, and this is some kind of hospitality. Wriothesley didn't expect anything more from him.
— Do you know the reason why I was invited? — Wriothesley asks, and although it's not very tactful, he's not the type who likes to lie. Lyney paces around the living room, unable to find a place for himself, and turns to him at this question:
— Is there any reason other than the fact that you are so-called friends?
— Yes,— Liney's sarcastic tone falls on deaf ears. — She's worried that you look tired. And you really look tired, even with all that makeup on your face.
Lyney chatters his teeth — and this makes something clench in Wriothesley's chest. He suggests that this is a concern.
— I understood you. It won't bother her anymore.
— No, you did not understand me. You will still show this fatigue to me. Because you can’t stand me — and because of this you are honest with me, — Lyney responds to this with a humorless laugh. — And I’ll hand you over to her. And again and again.
— Is this a suggestion that I behave more courteous around you, Your Grace?
— God, don’t start over again, — Wriothesley presses his palm to his face, counting to five before continuing. — If you start talking to me politely, I’ll tell both Lynette and Freminet that you’re crazy, and you’ll be locked up for forced rest in the hospital. I heard that the Fontaine hospitals have excellent breakfasts. There will be something to try.
— What nonsense? — Lyney frowns. — Then what were these words for?
— Because you need to perceive them more easily. Your siblings worry about you when you hide the truth from them. Maybe... Whoa, — Cryo Vision flares up in response to other's hysterical Pyro, which rang with his master's rage. — We will burn down your house. I definitely don't advise you to start this.
— Then don’t make me mad with your non-working advice, — Lyney mutters through his teeth, tearing his Pyro Vision from his belt, placing it on the shelf with a crash and walking towards the kitchen. Something is rattling there too, quite displeasedly, so Wriothesley doesn’t even try to get closer. He looks around the room until Lyney kicks open the door, which dared that half-closed itself and block his path from the kitchen to the living room, so that the walls seemed to tremble, and puts a tray of tea in front of him. Beautiful teapot. Beautiful cups. A face full of contempt. — Drink, your grace, — Lyney smiles, and with all the poison he exudes, it looks almost ugly.
— Wriothesley, — the man corrects him, and apparently Lyney is sufficiently annoyed even after he has taken out everything that has accumulated in him during the brewing process, since he snaps at this:
— More like lanky. Drink your damn tea, — and immediately covers his mouth with his hand. Wriothesley shrugs at this: at least it was honestly, and takes up the cup. There is silence... Not tense, but awkward. Lyney watches him, as if expecting some kind of reaction after the order to drink tea, except that he will actually just start drinking tea, sits down in the chair opposite, not observing any decency with this pulling his legs towards himself, and is silent. — I’m sorry, — he says after Wriothesley blows to cool the clear boiling water he’s been handed.
— Doesn't sound sincere. The tea is terrible.
— Because Lynette knows how to brew it, not me, — he rolls his eyes and wearily drops his head into his palm. — For rudeness.
— But you didn’t apologize before.
— You used to deserve to be rude.
— Lanky doesn’t even sound like an insult, so I let it slide, — Wriothesley puts the cup away, resigning himself to the fact that it’s okay not to try it yet. — Moreover, it doesn’t suit me.
— Why? — Lyney asks tiredly.
— Do you think I’m not folding enough to deserve such a nickname? — Wriothesley grins, and suddenly feels a gaze on him, examining him without any shame: he did not experience this even in Meropide. From legs to chest to face.
— Quite well, — Lyney suddenly agrees with him, and no less suddenly turns charmingly pink, sighing painfully. — Forget it. I've just slept so little that I'm really going crazy.
— And then we return to the beginning of the conversation: Lynette is worried about you. And Freminet, — he involuntarily clears his throat from such close attention and rests his elbows on his knees, bending over. — And this was not a hint for you to start hiding even more from everyone that you were tired. Your circles under eyes are visible even through all the layers you managed to put on yourself.
Lyney reaches up, running his fingers gently across his lower eyelids, leaving an impressive white mark as the blue beneath his eyes deepens.
— And what do you suggest I do? Relax? — he asks sarcastically. — You yourself understand that there are matters that do not require delay.
— That’s why I wasn’t going to advise you to do something like that. Just let them take care of you. This will ease their worries, — Wriothesley spreads his hands. — Sometimes the best thing we can do to make others worry is to let others worry about us a little. Then they will calm down — and you can load yourself up with work again.
Lyney laughs: sincerely this time and quietly, exhausted, but it still sounds nice. He closes eyes, as if he’s going to fall asleep right here, but immediately stops himself from this idea:
— It sounds like you're sharing a time-tested strategy with me. Can I even use it or do you have a patent for it?
— Oh, well, if I allow it, then it’s possible, — Wriothesley sighs with relief. — We are a little more similar than you think. I did not say that? So our strategies will also be similar to each other.
— You and I are not similar in any way, except for our biographies that vaguely resemble each other, — Lyney rolls his eyes.
— Oh, I heard it was called the similarity of stories. The biggest similarity. You know, going through the same experiences and all that.
— Oh, shut up.
This time the silence is peaceful. Wriothesley tries the cold tea, which still tastes terrible, but he's already been told that it wasn't the family's usual tea master who made it, so he's just passing the time. With sugar it is even normal. At the same time, Lyney seems to be trying not to fall asleep right there again, resisting her body, and Wriothesley makes bets in his head whether this will happen after all or not. If it happens, what is the likelihood that he will then be threatened so that he does not even dare to remember it: how did Lyney let his guard down and trust enough to languish?
And then the lights go out in the living room, and Lyney jumps into the air — just like a cat — and hisses — also just like a cat — in surprise.
— Is there someone there? I thought we just forgot to turn off the light, — Freminet’s voice is heard from the corridor, returning as promised as soon as possible. Lyney takes a breath and responds:
— Yes, both me and Wriothesley are here. Fremi, give us back the light, please?
— Fine. But you’re wasting too much energy again, leaving so many rooms illuminated, — he grumbles from the corridor, and the light returns at the same moment. Lyney rises lithely, feigningly lithely, to cheerfully greet Freminet and ask how it all turned out, and Wriothesley thinks he learned nothing from their conversation. But the eyes definitely glowed in the dark. And he always wondered if he and Lynette were twins, if he had something too, like cat ears and a tail.
He asks this at dinner, and the answer is, of course, Lynette, while Lyney gives him a suspicious look, saying that he has eyes and fangs, and that's all. Freminet adds that these two can also eat cat food, and Wriothesley can't help but laugh as the twins try to fight off this fact. Nothing else happens during the evening, gradually only he and Lynette remain in the kitchen, just like in the tea salons, and now they can discuss something new from food, but when he is seen off, the girl suddenly thanks him:
— This is the earliest he's gone to bed in a long time. So mission accomplished, — she chuckles softly in response to his sincere bewilderment.
— Are you sure it wasn’t because he looked like he was about to fall nose-first into a plate? — Wriothesley asks even more perplexed. Lynette snorts and shakes her head:
— You definitely don’t know what kind of person my brother is.
Wriothesley can't argue with that, so he just trusts her judgment. He's still not sure if his conversation had any impact, because tired people are different from their full energy selves, so he wouldn't be surprised if Lyney's first thing after waking up was tell his advice to go to hell, but the next time he sees him after the show, he really seems more alive than before. Rosseland is not even just lifted from his feet with a tired sigh, but is patted by the stomach in a fit of emotion
— I still can’t understand what he found lying next to my boots, — Wriothesley grunts, rising from his chair and stretching stiff shoulders.
— He likes shiny things. Your boots fit that description quite well, — and before Wriothesley can say that there are probably more interesting pairs of shoes in this hall than he has, Lyney adds cheerfully. — Although I don’t understand either. If I were Rosseland, I would lie on your lap.
Firstly, it gives completely unnecessary images in his head, which look extremely indecent even in the most innocent variations. Secondly, given all the communication before, this is not what Lyney should be telling him, so Wriothesley just freezes in place with a stupidly shocked expression on his face. He laughs: again, cheerfully, and not malicious, and it's strange:
— Just let it slide, like you let the insults slide before.
— Before it was insults, but now...
— Now this is flirting, — Liney finishes, hearing the obvious uncertainty in his voice. — But you can still ignore it. Consider this my new way of silencing you.
If this is a new way, then it actually works, because Wriothesley doesn't know how to react to such a Lyney, and despite the fact that it all seems artificial and unreal at first, Lyney... He's not lying. Wriothesley saw through his lies well enough to claim this, and this honesty in the new format is confusing. It definitely improves the moment of their communication, because when you're not trying to bite each other with phrases, it's much easier to build, but... It's unusual. Considering how sometimes Lyney freezes at his own words, this is also nothing familiar for him.
— Would you like to come visit us today? — Lynette asks after the show, and Wriothesley shakes his head.
— Sigewinne won’t forgive me if I don’t show up on time today, so maybe next time.
— Okay. Then I will invite you again later. Brother, — she turns to him, stuck near the washbasin, — I’ll wait for you outside.
— Yes, thank you, Lynette, — Lyney responds through the sound of the water. — When they promised me durability, I didn’t think that it would be so durable. They should have warned about this.
— Or you should have believed more in the words they said about this line, — Wriothesley grins, leaning on the partition in the middle of the room. Lyney grumbles, finally washing face in such a way that he is satisfied with himself, showing his face that is red from the effort of scrubbing it. Still pretty, but obviously, in Lyney’s own opinion, not pretty enough for the stage.
— Words are not worth much, — he combs his hair, which is still curled from a tight braid on one side of his head, and now, it happens again: Lyney turns to him, squinting affectionately, and adds. — Although, perhaps, the rumors about the nobility of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide are worth believing. They are quite consistent with what I see now.
Usually Wriothesley, on Lyney's own advice, ignored this. Or he was stunned by the suddenness of the situation to have time to respond. Now that it has become habitual, he simply responds:
— But I shouldn’t believe the rumors about the magician Lyney: they don’t even come close to conveying how charming he really is.
For a moment, one moment, but Wriothesley is used to watching, a vulnerable expression appears on Lyney’s face before it is erased into a learned smile that he already hates:
— Don’t ever do that again, — Lyney tells him, turning away. — I’m telling you: just ignore my words.
Wriothesley sighs as he steps closer, with a vague urge to trap Lyney between himself and that dressing table with his arms, but that could easily get him into a bit of a fight if Lyney's reflex kicks in, so he just walks up to the side and waits for other to look at him. It takes a long time because Lyney ignores his existence very well, but then he sighs and turns to him anyway:
— What?
— How uncomfortable do you feel around me again that you’re trying to suppress that smile?
A real groan of despair is heard:
— Would you rather have me bite your head off? — Lyney asks, once again confident that the answer will be “no”.
— Yes? — Wriothesley answers once again. — I have already said that, whatever honesty is, I prefer it.
— You... You’re an idiot, — Lyney sighs, defeated in this battle, where everything is decided in one phrase. — Why couldn’t you just ignore it? Over time I would stop.
— Why couldn't you ignore it? — Wriothesley asks ironically, encountering an unexpectedly vivid reaction:
— Because, unlike you, I never ignored your words!
— Yes, on the contrary, you cling to them with all your might, — and Lyney, who was already preparing an apology for a hard day and such an outburst, laughs, covering mouth with his hand. — Sometimes it seems to me that if I just say the word “stone”, then you’ll end up finding fault with it too.
— I... I’m sorry, — Lyney takes a breath. — I'll try to work on it.
He continues to pack in silence, so Wriothesley has to remind him:
— Why can you flirt, but I can’t?
— Because... — he almost puts on that doll-like smiling mask on his face, but gives in to Wriothesley's outright skepticism. — Because it means something from you. I cling to your words, you said it yourself. It will seem to me that there is an intention behind them.
— Hmm, — Wriothesley folds his arms over chest. — Then, it turns out there’s nothing hidden under your flirting? Is this just a dilution of communication?
And as soon as Lyney's gaze goes blank to laugh it off, Wriothesley sighs and steps into other's personal space, placing his hand on shoulder. Bare shoulder because Liney's stage costume doesn't really make any sense, even though he doesn't understand it. Lyney freezes at this.
— Please, tell me honestly. You know what I can see when you lie to me. You've been taking it out on me this whole time. The situation obviously won’t get worse, — Wriothesley asks, looking into the violet eyes, which now seem wild from the way the pupil has shrunk into a narrow slit in them. He backs away, realizing that this could at least be tactless, but Lyney stops him, covering palm by his:
— This could get worse, — the voice sounds unexpectedly quiet. — You know you piss me off enough to bring me to the truth. Now, that’s also true, — he clears his throat to sound more confident. — And now that we've established that there's an intention behind my flirting, you realize... Oh, — Wriothesley can't help but smile as Lyney makes a soft noise, finding himself in a respectful embrace, tight enough to hold but light enough to let go at a moment's notice.
— The only thing left to do is get you to start asking what you want to ask, — Wriothesley says and gets kicked quite noticeably:
— Back off. You didn't really say anything yourself. Maybe this is how you console me? — Lyney falls silent when he feels a kiss being pressed to his hair:
— Can I ask you out on a date, since your flirting was still with intention and I decided to answer it? — Wriothesley can't help but tease, enjoying how annoyed Lyney is, throwing his head back. Honesty is beautiful. Now, with red cheeks and an insolent look — is especially.
— Don't know. Kiss me so that I will think about whether I should agree to this.
Wriothesley leans lower, oh his poor neck, to press his lips to that mouth, invitingly parted, and he has no intentions other than a gentle kiss, perhaps with his palms on thin waist, because before Lyney reacted to any touch without asking as if it were a harbinger of disaster, but everything is destroyed at the moment when Lyney clings to his shirt and presses him, taking advantage of the moment of shock, into the wall of this small dressing room:
— Just because I called you noble doesn’t mean I have to be treated like a princess. Kiss Me. You can, — says Lyney, himself embarrassed by his sincerity. Wriothesley licks lips, an involuntary movement that is closely watched:
— Oh, you're not treated like a princess. You need to be treated so carefully, like a bomb.
Lyney's face distorts with displeasure:
— One more phrase instead of you holding me close and kissing me, because I want it unbearably, and we will never kiss again, because I don’t have the courage for it.
Wriothesley laughs, placing hand on the back of his head, fingers through his soft hair, kissing him as requested until his hand lands on hips and lifts Lyney higher. He hears a muffled moan — and presses his mouth to the neck, leaving a hot trail, tearing off a couple more. Lyney, even now, even continuing to cling to him and pull him closer, muffledly whispers that these marks will be too obvious tomorrow, and Wriothesley bites the curve of his shoulder, making him scream.
He doesn't have any shows until a week later, so a little exposure won't hurt anyone.
But the fact that Sigewinne will soon begin to be indignant — will.
On the other hand, Lyney's kiss is tempting enough while he's in his arms, beautiful and sonorous and trying to scratch, so he can afford to linger a few more minutes.