Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steam rises in soothing coils, coloring the air with a fresh, calming fragrance.

Clink, clink, clink.

The tingling sound of a tiny, silver spoon composes his favorite tune. Wriothesley watches with satisfaction how the sugar melts, becoming one with the golden liquid while stirring his freshly brewed tea.

Picking up the delicate cup, pinky stretched out (not for the fancies, but for the funsies), Wriothesley lifts the drink to his nose, inhales with his eyes drifting shut. A nice shudder runs down his spine as the sweet, herbal smell fills his being and he exhales. Tension slowly leaves his body.

He takes a sip and sighs as the delicious heat spreads on his tongue and down his throat, warming him like a hug from the inside. Wriothesley opens one eye, a lazy smile forming on his lips.

“Mmh, nothing better than tea to wind down after all the work, don't you think so too, Clorinde?”

The woman facing him, shifts in her chair, uncrossing her legs beneath the table. “If you say so,” Clorinde says, a bit blasé but not unkind, after swallowing a piece of chocolate cake.

“Come now.” Wriothesley chuckles, not at all offended by her disinterested reaction. “We’re here to relax.” He motions vaguely around them with his hand holding the teacup.

Neat tables occupied with people enjoy the late evening, just like them. The cafe is nestled in a cozy Quartier away from the busy main street—not unlike a little refuge.

He inches forward, elbow propped up on the table, chin resting on his hand. “Weren’t you on a date with Navia yesterday?” Wriothesley breathes in a conspiratorial whisper.

She thrusts her fork a little too forcefully on her dessert. Wriothesley is amazed the plate didn't break.

It's not a warning, but a promise.

Goosebumps rise on his skin. But the danger only entices him. Smirking, he savors another sip of his tea.

“That’s a lovely flush you got there, my dear.”

“Wriothesley,” Clorinde hisses.

“Oh? Did you two finally…” He flutters his eyelids, and puckers his lips, mimicking crude kissing noises.

Teasing her is fun but Wriothesley regrets it instantly when she pierces him with a fierce, furious glare. For a brief moment Wriothesley sees his life rewind like a movie clip. He can't help wondering if that's the feeling challengers experience before the Champion Duelist brings them down and shudders.

Crash! One moment Wriothesley sits on his chair, the next his ass hits the floor with a loud thud.

People turn their heads, looking for the source of the commotion.

“Everything’s fine. I accidentally fell from my chair.” Laughing awkwardly, Wriothesley stands up, dusting his pants off.

“Clorinde, that was uncalled for,” he says, but the amusement clings to his words as he plops back on his seat.

“You asked for it,” she retorts, matter-of-factly, like she hadn't just kicked a full grown man twice her weight from a chair.

“Haha. Alright, alright.” Wriothesley holds his hands up in surrender. “But can't you tell me? I'm just cheering for my dearest friend.”

“Dearest friend, my ass,” she huffs, but then relents, a cute smile tickling the corners of her mouth. “We… held hands,” Clorinde admits in a shy voice.

“That’s… wow. Wonderful. Congrats?” Wriothesley grins. “At this rate, you two will be popping cherries in like five yea–ow, ow, ow!! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Stop, I'm dying!” Wriothesley winces, failing to free himself as Clorinde pinches his cheeks, vicious and merciless. Her sharp nails digging into his skin.

“Rich coming from you.” She smiles at him, sweetly. Clorinde finally lets go, satisfied with her vengeance.

“What,” he mumbles, rubbing his abused cheeks, his cool Cryo-imbued fingertips soothing the ache.

“You and the Chief Justice,” she says, promptly.

Immediately, Wriothesley sits up straight, crossing his arms. “What about us?” he says, trying for nonchalance.

“At this rate, you're going to bite the dust before confessing.”

Appalled and scandalized, he stares at her: “Clorinde!”

“Knew it, but I'm disappointed. Didn't think you were such a coward.” She checks her nails in a bored kind of fashion.

“Ouch. Don't be mean. It's complicated,” Wriothesley defends himself as if standing trial.

“Duh. It is for everyone. This excuse is getting old.” Clorinde rolls her eyes.

“But, but we're talking about Neuvillette!” Wriothesley shout-whispers. “I can't just go to him and say: I love you. How about we date?”

“Sure, why not? Maybe give him some flowers to make it more romantic and cute?” Clorinde snorts, full of wicked glee.

“You–you’re teasing me,” Wriothesley realizes, shoulders slumping. He reaches for his tea, but it's suddenly insipid.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Y’know this is probably so fucking funny but… seriously, it's better if he never knows.”

“Mmh. So, scared he'll reject you?”

“Yes, of course! My pride would never recover from such a blow.”

“Your pride? Look, I don't care about your pride but it's been already what? Ten years you’ve been making moon eyes at him. Honestly, gross. It can't be that he hasn't noticed,” Clorinde offers, like a hunter luring her prey into a trap.

“What do you mean?” Wriothesley asks, trepidation clutching his soul—aware he's been caught.

“If he didn't love you, do you think he'd put up with a tail-wagging dog slobbering at his feet?” She has him, hook, line and sinker. “Or should I say, slobbering over him?”

“Clorinde! I don't–what?” Wriothesley blinks, her words slowly sinking into his brain. “Has he told you something?”

Certain: “He doesn't need to.”

Incredulous: “I–I don't believe you. This… is ridiculous.”

“Wanna bet?” She smiles, the terrifying, bone-chilling kind of way.

“Bet?” Wriothesley echoes, stupidly.

She nods.

He laughs. “Bet he'll agree to date me? Are you insane?”

“No. Not like that. I bet you’d rather shave your head and wear a pink dress for a month than confess to him until the end of this week.”

Stunned, Wriothesley gaps at his friend for a solid minute.

“No way. Until the end of this week? There’re just three, no, two days left.”

“Giving up already?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding me? It’s hardly fair. Besides being ridiculous.”

“Hopeless situations call for drastic measures or something like that,” Clorinde shrugs.

“Ouch. That’s just plain cruel,” Wriothesley huffs, fairly certain the idiom doesn’t apply to his case but elects not to comment on that. (Ok. No. Of course, she's right. She always is. It’s completely hopeless—beyond salvation.)

“Alright. Fine. But if I confess you owe me a lifetime of tea leaves.” He relents, not believing he’s actually agreeing to this… this absurdity.

“Why?”

“It’s the least you can do for my broken heart.”

“Oh? Sure. However, only if your heart gets broken.” Clorinde points out like he actually stands a chance. What a joke.

“Deal,” both say, shaking hands. Clorinde’s grip is bone-crushing; Wriothesley never wants to fight her.

“Good luck wooing your man.” Clorinde pats his arm, encouraging.

“Very funny,” he chuckles, dry and sarcastic.

The rest of the night passes with less fanfare but no-less silly banter.

No tea can soothe his nerves as anticipation and anxiety waltz in his guts. Tonight, Wriothesley won't get much eye-shut, that he is sure of.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The next evening, the large double doors to Neuvillette’s office greet Wriothesley, like a threat, looming and ominous.

Sedene is nowhere in sight. Which is fucking great, because that means there isn’t anyone to distract him. She must have left for a little break. Just his luck.

Wriothesley raises his hand, about to knock when reason kicks in. This is a mistake. Fatal, even. He has no idea what he’s going to talk about. And, well, a shaved head might not be the worst thing, since hair grows back, after all. He’ll probably survive wearing a pink dress too, right?

Yeah, that’s if he wants to become a fucking clown and turn Meropide into a damn circus.

“Fuck,” he mutters, grimacing. At the same time, the door swings open. And Wriothesley freezes.

“Your Grace? What brings you here so late?’ Neuvillette looks at him, surprised.

“I…” Wriothesley starts but can’t think of anything to say.

Suddenly, he feels incredibly parched. He drinks in the sight of Neuvillette as if the Chief Justice were a soul-saving oasis in a cursed, hot desert.

Tongue-tied, he becomes hyper-aware of how he must look like an idiot, standing there in front of the Chief Justice, still with one hand up in the air. Slowly, he moves his hand and scratches his nape. An awkward chuckle leaves his lips.

“Noticed the lights were still on, so I wanted to check Your Honor isn’t working himself to death.”

“Hardly. But I appreciate your concern,” Neuvillette says, amused. His eyes seem to glow for a second. “Is that everything?”

“Yes. I mean well, no. D-do you have a moment?” Wriothesley says, lamely wishing the ground would swallow him already. His thoughts run a thousand miles per second. Please say yes, please say no, please yes, please say-

“Of course, Your Grace.” Neuvillette agrees, (almost too) readily and opens the door wider. He motions inside with an inviting gesture.

Nodding, Wriothesley enters the office submerged in the usual warm lamplights. The door closes with a soft thud behind him. It’s nothing surprising but the sound makes him jump. They’re alone. Together. In itself an unremarkable occurrence. They had shared countless meetings, just the two of them. Here.

But never like this—without a plan of action to guide him. Or, rather, it's strange, and feels almost wrong to let a selfish desire dictate, compelling him to action. It’s easier, more justifiable to have a duty to fulfill. Hide behind work-related issues.

Nervous, anxious energy twists in his guts. His heart leaps to his throat. Feels his feet glued to the floor. Act naturally, Wriothesley chastises himself. Are you a man or a wimp?

“Please have a seat,” Neuvillette says, fussing with the tea set, his back turned to Wriothesley, long hair swaying hypnotically. “I hope you don't mind, we ran out of your favorite brand.” He sounds upset.

Yet, the meaning of those words swim in and out of Wriothesley's ears.

“Uh… no. Don't trouble yourself on my behalf.” Wriothesley says, reflexively transfixed to the spot. In his mind he sees himself approach Neuvillette from behind. Wrap arms around his waist. Brushing hair aside to plant a kiss to his nape. Whisper a sweet confession against one pointed ear. Those three incriminating words caged in his aching throat like wild, trapped birds. Heat rises to his cheeks.

His heart twists into a sailor’s knot, tight and constricting.

“So, what brings you here?” Neuvillette’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

Dumbfounded, Wriothesley regards him. The Chief Justice sits on the couch with his legs crossed, elegant and sublime.

“Huh?” Wriothesley utters like an eloquent fool.

“Your Grace?” Neuvillette tilts his head, looking as cute as an otter. No. Scratch that. He's way cuter. His hair falls over his shoulder like liquid silver, soft and smooth. Wriothesley wonders how it would feel to his touch. His fingers twitch, curious, wanting, starved.

“It’s… I,” Wriothesley fumbles for words. He should excuse himself and run—as far away as possible. Doesn’t deserve to be here.

The moment is all wrong and awkward. Confess? Here? Now? He’s nuts. Insane. Has completely lost it. In what world could he date the Chief Justice? Dream world, only. He’s too tense. The leather bandages around his neck feel suddenly too tight.

And Neuvillette watches him, expectant and unguarded. Radiates such purity, it’s blinding. Does Neuvillette really suspect something like Clorinde surmised? Impossible!

Wriothesley shakes his head. There is no point in wondering about these things now. He inhales sharply. He’ll say he’s sorry for bothering Neuvillette and scram. Retreat and regroup. He needs time to develop the right approach. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.

“Your feather accessory… It’s a bit crooked.” Wriothesley blurts out, instead. Which is total bullshit. The feather rests perfectly fine in Neuvillette’s hair. But he moves before his thoughts can catch up, fingertips brushing over the delicate blue plume.

The room holds its breath. Neuvillette stills. Both stay as if petrified, frozen in time for a moment.

Shit. What is his dumb ass doing? Wriothesley has never wanted to punch himself so badly.

“Then can you fix it for me?” Neuvillette washes his spiraling thoughts away, always so soft and kind—Wriothesley falls for him all over again. How much more can you love someone?

The permission works like a magic spell.

“It’d be a pleasure.” Wriothesley melts inside with relief, an almost mischievous grin climbing over his mouth. Bets and confessions forgotten as he sinks down on the couch next to Neuvillette. His fingers trail over the surface over the feather, smoothing over the countless soft barbs. He traces the golden outline of the quill where the tip of the plume vanishes.

Wriothesley thinks his heart might give out at any moment. Neuvillette closes his eyes, and Wriothesley notes just how long his lashes actually are. His fingers stray from the ornament. Dip into soft silver hair. And Neuvillette leans into his touch. No. That’s not happening. It must be a figment of his mind.

“Ah, I think your bow got loose too. Do you mind if I…?”

“But it isn't too much trouble…?” Neuvillette hums.

“Not at all,” Wriothesley answers, the words almost tripping his tongue.

“Then I'll be in your care.” Neuvillette turns around, offering his back to him. Ever so trusting. Wriothesley is going to die. His heart swells, elated and painful. Won’t make it alive out of this office.

His callused finger hooks into the bow, and with a gentle tug the dark tie comes undone. Silver hair spills free and covers Neuvillette's shoulders like a second coat.

The soothing scent of petrichor and moonlight saturates the air, caresses his lungs, hugs his heart. He wants to bury his face into the soft strands. Wants to drown, soak in it.

Wriothesley parts the sea of endless white, silver strands stream like rivers through his fingers.

“You really got a lot of hair.” Wriothesley whistles. “Can’t be easy to take care of,” he remarks, impressed, enamored with the smooth, silky feel like dipping his hands into a cool, enchanted lake.

“It certainly isn't, but I’m used to it.” Neuvillette chuckles, the sound scintillates like light caught in dew drops. “And to be honest, I'm quite fond of it.” He twirls a strand between his fingertips.

“Yeah… me too.” Wriothesley hears himself say like a pathetic fool. “Your hair is… very pretty. Prettier than starlight.” As soon as those words leave his mouth, Wriothesley cringes. He's fucking lost it. The bet has destroyed his reason and sense of property. How dare he flirt with the Chief Justice?! Neuvillette will demand him to leave. He’ll–

“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” Neuvillette stutters. A soft glow emanates from those long blue thingies nestled on the top of Neuvillette's hair.

This, Wriothesley does not expect. Neuvillette's reaction leaves him unmoored. Any moment, gravity will release him from its clutches, and he'll soar into the air.

A nice, sweet silence settles over them as Wriothesley works through the endless strands of silver.

It's too intimate. The thought flits like a shooting star across the space of his mind. But Wriothesley is so engrossed in running his fingers through Neuvillette's hair, he barely notices it. Or rather he revels in the knowledge on a subconscious level.

His touch lingers. Wriothesley takes too long. Is probably doing more harm than good. Yet, Neuvillette doesn't seem to be bothered. On the contrary, he feels relaxed, his body drifting closer to Wriothesley.

A soft rumbling fills the air. The sound reminds Wriothesley of a content cat enjoying a good petting session. Wait. Is Neuvillette purring? Wriothesley's brain almost short-circuits at the realization.

“Feels good,” Neuvillette drawls, voice sleep-laden. His form sways and his back lands with a soft thud against Wriothesley’s chest.

“Your Honor?” Wriothesley whispers, voice pitched an octave too high, heart jumping to his tongue.

No response. But the soft purring continues.

He hasn't recovered from the purring just yet, and now the Chief Justice just fell asleep on him?! But he can't be panicking now lest he disturb Neuvillette's rest.

Wriothesley takes a few calm breaths, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around Neuvillette, and hide his face in the crook of his neck.

They are too close. Neuvillette's back presses tightly against him. And fits so fucking perfect against his chest. Wriothesley wants to die. Is dying.

This position can't be comfortable for Neuvillette. Carefully, to not wake him up, Wriothesley tries to nudge Neuvillette away but instead Neuvillette slides down his chest, head falling on Wriothesley's thighs.

Silver hair cascades down his legs.

It's an absolute mess. But Neuvillette looks so peaceful, sleeping on his lap, all panic evaporates from Wriothesley's system.

He watches Neuvillette in awe. What a marvel. So fucking beautiful, ethereal. Wriothesley wants to touch him. Knows he shouldn't. But he can't waste such an opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.

With tender affection, Wriothesley brushes loose strands from Neuvillette's face. His fingers whisper over delicate skin. Neuvillette's cheeks feel warm and smooth. Feeling bolder, Wriothesley presses, drags his thumb across plush, parted lips.

It feels dangerous, decadent and delicious.

Could dip his thumb into Neuvillette's inviting mouth. Tangle with his tongue. Temptation sings oh so sweet.

But Wriothesley doesn't want to push his luck. Even if a desire for more simmers in his stomach. However, he’s more than content with just playing pillow for Neuvillette. Idly, he keeps running his fingers through silver strands, fingertips kissing Neuvillette's scalp. The proximity is soothing, comforting, and lulls his senses to a slow shutdown.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll confess. It's the last thought Wriothesley has before he follows Neuvillette into dreamland.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Sedene finds them the next morning, still sleeping. Wriothesley’s hand is buried in silver hair while Neuvillette drools a little on Wriothesley's lap.

The sight is so precious, Sedene doesn't waste a second to capture the moment with the snap of a camera. And the noise is enough to stir Wriothesley out of his slumber.

“Ugh…” he groans, feeling awfully stiff. There’s also an annoying, dull throb in the right side of his skull hinting at a wrathful headache waiting to assault him any minute now. Did I try to pull an all-nighter and fell asleep in my office? Wriothesley wonders briefly. But even then, he wouldn't have rested like this—so unguarded and… why can't he feel his legs anymore?

Wriothesley blinks sand from his eyes, his vision too blurred to make out his surroundings just yet.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” It's a tiny sweet Melusine whisper.

Sigewinne? No.

“G’morning, Sedene.” He replies automatically. Wait. “Sedene?!” Wriothesley sits up, fully awake.

“Yes.” She says cheerfully. “I’m sorry to disturb your rest but Monsieur Neuvillette dislikes being behind his schedule. It’s just always really tricky to coax him awake. Well, I’ll leave it to you. Good luck!”

“Right.” Wriothesley nods, but he’s barely listening. Colored light trickles from the stained glass windows, and with it mortification sweeps over him.

Neuvillette.

The Chief Justice fell asleep on Wriothesley's lap. And he's still there. Wriothesley can feel the comforting weight of Neuvillette's head resting on his thighs. Wriothesley’s fingers are still tangled in his silvery hair.

What the fuck had Wriothesley done yesterday? Had he been drunk? His tea spiked? But he can't agonize over his foolish past-self now. Later. It has to wait for later.

A glance at grandfather’s clock tells him it's… already past lunchtime.

What.

With trepidation he looks for Sedene, but she's nowhere to be found. She must have left when he was lost in thoughts.

Damn it.

Wriothesley drops his gaze. And the air gets sucked out of his lungs. If prim and proper Neuvillette looked already otherworldly, then disheveled Neuvillette overshadows, surpasses the ideal of beauty.

Nothing could have prepared Wriothesley for this.

Wouldn’t be so bad to just stay like this for a while longer. But he doesn't want to push his luck more than he already has. Carefully, reluctantly, Wriothesley extricates his hand from Neuvillette’s hair.

But then he stops short—a foolish, ungodly idea possesses his soul like a wicked demon whispering of temptation and desire. It’s too good to pass up: Wriothesley lifts a silver strand to his nose. Inhales, deep and long. Suddenly, it’s like standing in the middle of rain, being embraced by the ocean’s shore. The edges of his impending headache washed away. Wriothesley nuzzles into the liquid silver, wanting, needing more of this enticing, intoxicating fragrance.

“Mmh,” Neuvillette makes a garbled noise at the back of his throat.

Wriothesley freezes.

Sapphire eyes flutter open. Looking up, Neuvillette blinks at him, all sweet and drowsy. A terrifying assault: Wriothesley feels the twist of a sharp blade in his poor, fragile heart. And he would gladly bleed out if it meant he could stare at Neuvillette forever until the end of time and beyond.

“Your… Grace?”

He’s forgotten he’s been sniffing Neuvillette’s hair like a freaking pervert. His heart almost gives out as a rush of blood surges towards his head.

“Your Honor—I…” Wriothesley chokes out, dropping Neuvillette’s hair as if he had been burnt. “You smell really good,” he admits, chuckling awkwardly and scratching the back of his neck. If embarrassment were lethal, he’d perish on the spot, not even leaving dust behind.

The Chief Justice frowns, whether in confusion or disdain Wriothesley can’t say but there is also something else, indecipherable. Makes his stomach clench, filling with heat.

“Is that so?” Neuvillette says, slowly. His voice still rough from sleep. Wriothesley's favorite sound now.

“Yeah,” Wriothesley says, lamely.

A few tense seconds pass, the air feels so thick, Wriothesley can barely breathe. (Why isn’t he dead yet, for fuck’s sake?! Someone, anyone, please kill him.)

“You don’t smell so bad, either. Very pleasantly actually, if not exquisitely, I must say.” Neuvillette responds, languidly, as if his words were wrapped in cotton. Stifling a yawn, the Chief Justice blinks, slowly. His eyelids, then, stay half-closed.

Wriothesley is stunned stupid. He's going to die. Right here and now. He's going to die and the cause of his death is nothing else but those careless, meaningless words: you don't smell so bad either… exquisitely… Did-did the Chief Justice just flirt with him?? No, no, no. Neuvillette couldn't have meant them. But then again, he wasn't a man to throw around casual, nonsensical remarks. Not even when joking.

Ah, maybe Wriothesley hit his head at some point and this all part of a freaking fever dream.

Neuvillette's gorgeous, pretty eyes drift shut again.

Eh? Is he going to fall asleep once more? (How devastatingly cute is that?!)

“As much as you're welcome to stay on my lap all day, I think it's time to get up.” Wriothesley chuckles, nervously.

“Not yet,” Neuvillette mumbles.

“Your Honor? Monsieur Neuvillette?” Wriothesley calls out and hesitates. Doesn't know where to touch him. “Apologies,” he whispers and places a hand on Neuvillette's shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Mmh.” Neuvillette makes another one of those sinful sounds that have Wriothesley grapple with his sanity. Fuck. He can't get a hard-on in the middle of Neuvillette's office! Especially not with Neuvillette literally still clinging to his lap.

Sighing, he suppresses his ache with a bit of his Cryo. And left with no other choice, Wriothesley pries Neuvillette swiftly from his lap lest he feels the sudden coolness.

The Chief Justice sways from one side to the other and looks precariously close to falling over. Wriothesley holds Neuvillette's shoulders to steady him. But the heaviness of the half-awake is as overwhelming as that of the drunk. Therefore, Neuvillette drops straight into Wriothesley's chest.

“Your Honor… please have some mercy,” Wriothesley pleads, drowning in a sea of internal tears.

It's just always really tricky to coax him awake.

Didn't Sedene say something like that?

To Wriothesley's utter horror delight, Neuvillette presses even closer, nuzzling into his chest. Feels the soft exhale of Neuvillette hit his skin. And if that weren't worse enough, Neuvillette wraps his arms tightly around Wriothesley's waist.

Surreal. Dizzying.

But when Wriothesley looks down and catches Neuvillette's content, relaxed expression, all his anxiety ebbs away.

Who cares if this is a dream or real? Instead of fretting over this bizarre, fantastical situation, Wriothesley should treasure this precious moment.

Encouraged by this thought, he presses a kiss to Neuvillette's forehead. Threads his fingers into Neuvillette's hair and speaks in a low-pitched rumble: “Hey, sweetness. I'm really loath to part, but you need to wake up.”

Wriothesley pats his cheek, softly and Neuvillette purrs, leaning into his touch like an affection-starved cat.

Neuvillette stirs. Rubbing his eyes, he stretches himself, another yawn forming on his mouth and then their gazes meet.

Everything stills. They both forget how to breathe. Neuvillette's pupils shrink into sharp slits as he must be realizing their inappropriate closeness and all the places they're touching.

Wriothesley’s anxiety surges back with vengeance like a rising tide. Wants to grovel at Neuvillette's feet, begging for forgiveness of having trespassed so many social boundaries in a single short night. But the Chief Justice beats him to it.

Fabric rustles as Neuvillette releases Wriothesley from his hold, getting quickly to his feet.

“My sincere apologies, Your Grace,” Neuvillette offers, tone stilted. With his back facing Wriothesley, he fusses with his hair as if… as if Neuvillette were hiding from him?!

“Apologies? Th-there is no ne–” Wriothesley wants to wave him off. If anyone needed to apologize it was him, after all. But Neuvillette interrupts him.

“I insist… that has been rather uncouth on my part, Your Grace.” Neuvillette looks over his shoulders with an unreadable expression on his face. Except it isn't. The pink flush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his pointed ears, speaks volumes. “Over the millennia, it has become quite the endeavor for me to, well, get up.”

Wow. Isn’t it nice to be reminded that your crush is several thousand years old? Not that Wriothesley particularly cares. Only leaves the question: how could he possibly dream to woo a person of Neuvillette’s caliber? Wriothesley’s life experience would never match up to Neuvillette’s.

Besides, what if the Chief Justice felt too old to indulge in romance? Who is to say Neuvillette isn’t similar to a huge ancient tree with its branches still carrying leaves, the interest to produce flowers and invite butterflies and bees long abandoned in favor of appreciating the simplicity of life. Yet, why does Wriothesley feel so painfully attracted to him? In his eyes, Neuvillette is flourishing, in full bloom—just waiting for a butterfly’s kiss.

Still, what if Wriothesley is being a bother?

But his worries come to an abrupt halt when Wriothesley notices how Neuvillette wobbles. Without thinking, Wriothesley jumps to his feet, stepping forward and catching him.

“Careful there,” Wriothesley says, gently supporting Neuvillette’s back with his hands, steadying him.

“I… Ah, thank you, Your Grace. It would seem I’m not quite awake yet,” Neuvillette coughs, the pink flush almost glowing on his cheeks, bright and unmistakable.

Damn. Why are you so cute? Wriothesley thinks, unable to fight a smile. And says the next thing that pops in his mind: “Can’t we drop the titles already since we slept together?”

Oh shit. Wriothesley wants to rip his tongue out or, even better, get his hands on a time machine.

“I-I don’t mean like that… but literally. Fuck,” Wriothesley sputters. Hasn’t felt so pathetic in a while. No, wait. He can handle himself fine no matter the situation. But when it comes to Neuvillette, he’s one big, pathetic loser. He needs to run, excuse himself before more cursed words betray him again.

Wriothesley drops his hands from Neuvillette, about to turn tail when he hears it.

Neuvillette giggles, actually laughs, a hand held over his mouth.

It’s the most precious, joyous sound Wriothesley has had the pleasure of hearing. Feels like dying and then he’s ascending. He's weightless and unbound.

“Your Honor?” Wriothesley asks, but Neuvillette only shakes his head, laughter shaking his body. Utter delight ripples from him in waves.

It’s dangerous, contagious. Tickles Wriothesley inside out, grows and bubbles in his throat and he can’t stop the guffawing gush from his body, the previous episode wiped from his memory.

“You certainly do have a point—technically, we did…ahem… sleep together,” Neuvillette says, a bit breathless, after their giggling ebbs away.

A lovely shade of red stains his cheeks. Whether it’s from the same embarrassment Wriothesley feels or their sudden laughing fit, Wriothesley has no clue. But instead of letting anxiety rule his mind, Wriothesley feels grounded, still too high on endorphins to panic again just yet.

“Very well, when it’s just us, I shall refrain from formalities. I hope you’ll do the same… Wriothesley?” Neuvillette smiles, patting Wriothesley’s shoulder.

“O-of course, Neuvillette.”

An admittance: it’s alright to be a foolish human, Neuvillette won’t disdain him for his flaws.

This is it. The moment Wriothesley has been dreading, hoping and waiting for. Should confess now. His heartbeat picks up in force as if wanting to break free from his ribcage.

“Neuvillette…” Wriothesley rasps, reaching out for a delicate, dark gloved hand. He clasps his fingers around Neuvillette's wrist. “There is something I need to tell you.”

The Chief Justice tilts his head, his long silver strands framing his face, loose hair cascading over his shoulders like soft flowing water. Neuvillette nods, encouraging.

Anticipation rearranges Wriothesley's insides, triggering his flight or fight response. In the ocean of his wild emotions, Neuvillette is like his anchor tethering Wriothesley to the present.

Licking his lips, Wriothesley opens his mouth: “I lov–”

Rumble, rumble.

Wriothesley’s stomach growls, his speech drowned by the noisy protest.

“Man, I-I love food.” Wriothesley chuckles, nervous and shy. Fucking great timing. Of course, he'd get interrupted just like in those cheesy romance novels Navia always keeps crying over with those cringe sappy endings. But this is reality, not some dumb piece of fiction. He'd be the only one in tears after confessing.

Maybe this is a blessing in disguise, Wriothesley should use this chance and leave to better prepare. Yeah, he'll do exactly that.

Yet, instead of biding his farewell, Wriothesley hears himself saying: “Let's… let's have lunch together? My treat.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Ecstatic agony and excruciating delight tear Wriothesley's heart apart. Neuvillette had accepted his invitation all too happily. Wriothesley had wanted to combust on spot. His last hope was Sedene. But even she was on to what could only be a conspiracy. Wriothesley couldn't even trust himself. (His mouth had betrayed him so many times he'd lost count.)

The Melusine had waved them off cheerfully, reassuring Neuvillette there weren't any important trials scheduled for the moment.

Wriothesley has tried his best to bind Neuvillette's hair in an orderly fashion. The end result? A high ponytail, swaying behind Neuvillette, maybe a little askew and a few too many loose hair strands framing Neuvillette's face. On anyone else, it'd have been atrocious, a disaster really, but the Iudex looks as regal as ever—if not even better.

It is a pleasant, sunny afternoon when both men step out of Palais Mermonia.

They find a neat restaurant. Obviously, they attract people's attention, or rather, Neuvillette does.

While the Duke of Meropide keeps himself shrouded in the depths of the ocean, thus enjoying a certain anonymity, the Chief Justice lives in the limelight whether he likes it or not.

There isn't a soul in Fontaine who doesn't know him, after all. Hushed whispers accompany curious stares but thankfully people keep pointing fingers to a respectable limit.

“As always, our estimated Iudex sure is popular~” Wriothesley teases, a charming smile arresting his lips. Reason has left him.

“They could well be talking about you, Your Grace.” Neuvillette chuckles.

They're sitting across from each other. Their table tucked away in a well lit corner, giving them a small modicum of privacy.

“Me? Nah. Most people don't even know what the Duke looks like. Couldn't ask for more. Heh.” Wriothesley shakes his head.

“But they could be wondering about the handsome gentleman accompanying the Iudex.” Neuvillette smirks.

And it's like a meat hook yanking Wriothesley's heart. He can barely taste his food. Neuvillette can't be serious. It has to be teasing. A simple joke between old friends.

This isn't a date. They are just colleagues having a work lunch together. But oh, does Wriothesley wish it were a date. And thanks to the bet, he can't help but fantasize about it being one. Their conversation only fuels the illusion.

“Neuvillette, please. Obviously, in terms of beauty you outshine anyone. A true sight for sore eyes. It's hard, painful even, to look away, especially for–”

Me goes unsaid. Wriothesley shudders.

Fuck. That was a close call.

He can't confess here. It's too public. The irony isn't lost on him. Many, many years ago he'd confessed to not only Neuvillette but in front of a whole audience.

But exposing his own crimes and taking responsibility had been not a matter of courage but acceptance. At that time, he'd nothing left to fight for, nothing left to lose—he'd already achieved what he wanted.

For a ridiculous moment, Wriothesley imagines himself being that boy again. But this time he isn't standing trial. It's just him and Neuvillette under the shade of a tree watching the rain. Maybe Neuvillette would crouch down to be on eye level with him like the Chief Justice often does when he talks affectionately with the Melusines.

Wriothesley picks Neuvillette's hand into his own now smaller one.

There is no fear of rejection in his heart, only the joy of being with someone who actually cares for him. He brushes his lips over Neuvillette's knuckles, pouring his delight into the kiss.

“I love you,” Wriothesley says, looking straight into Neuvillette's eyes. He pecks Neuvillette's cheek quickly.

Maybe Neuvillette wouldn't take him seriously. Dismiss Wriothesley's affection for a mere teenage infatuation. But he'd still smile at Wriothesley, and ruffle his hair.

An impish grin spreads over Wriothesley's actual face at the fantasy.

“Enjoying your date?” Clorinde says, by way of greeting.

Her words are enough to snipe Wriothesley from the clouds.

“Very funny,” he hisses, throwing an apologetic smile Neuvillette's way.

“How nice to see you, Clorinde. Care to join us?” Neuvillette inquires, kindly. It’s hard to say whether he doesn’t mind her implication or he simply dismissed it.

“Oh no. Just dropped by to say hello. Besides, I wouldn't want to be third wheeling,” she says smoothly, giving Wriothesley a wicked wink.

“Stop it,” Wriothesley says through gritted teeth, hiding his ire behind a strained smile. He has never wanted to punch someone so badly.

“Here, I thought you'd like to pick one out. I recommend page thirty-seven.” Unceremoniously, she slaps something on the table and departs just as swiftly as she'd appeared.

“Don’t bother saying hello next time,” Wriothesley mutters, but then smoothes his ruffled expression with an awkward laugh when he catches Neuvillette watching him. “Women. I’ll never get them,” he offers with a shrug in hopes to explain the strange exchange.

“Mhm. I’d say you two share a good friendship.” Neuvillette observes, amused.

“Haha. Yeah, well, I wonder about that.” Wriothesley sighs. (Unless good friends were meant to ruin the mood of dates. Not that he is on a date.) He runs a hand through his hair and his gaze drops to the table, Wriothesley catches sight of the abomination Clorinde left him.

magnifique—the title screams in gaudy letters from what could only be a fashion magazine. A doll-like woman covered in endless lace stares at him from the cover. He makes a choked noise at the back of his throat and grabs the offending magazine, stuffing it in his coat pocket. He won’t ever look inside. Just the thought of it makes him cringe. But he wouldn’t need to. All Wriothesley has to do is confess to Neuvillette, sitting in front of him.

“Your Grace.”

“Your Honor.”

They say simultaneously and then both chuckle. Before Neuvillette can speak again, Wriothesley beats him to it and says: “Please, you go first.”

“I must apologize, it might have slipped my mind but the reason for your visit yesterday—what was it again?” Neuvillette inquires with a bit too much interest. Why did he have to pay so much attention to every detail? It's as endearing as it is vexing, like smelling a rose, its thorns piercing into the flesh of his fingers.

“Ah, that… it’s…” nothing important, is what Wriothesley almost wants to say, but immediately swallows down the lie.

Neuvillette regards him, intense and unblinking. His gaze consumes Wriothesley. It’s so easy to get lost in those sapphire eyes, not unlike drowning in the depths of the ocean.

It’s too much and Wriothesley makes the mistake of averting his eyes, only for them to slip to, get caught by Neuvillette's lips. A bit of cream clings to the corner of his mouth. His pink tongue traces the lovely, sinful shape of his lips trying to catch the bit of cream but fails.

Fuck. Wriothesley is dead and gone. Feels his reason crash, his heart give out and soul combust. He becomes just one pulsing, fervent desire.

When he comes back to himself, Wriothesley is leaning across the table, thumb brushing over Neuvillette’s bottom lip as he wipes the cream away. The contact is short but electrifying, liquifying Wriothesley to the bones. He’s going to faint. Any moment now, he’s going to-

A soft gasp leaves Neuvillette’s mouth.

Ok. Wait. Now Wriothesley is definitely going to pass out. What the hell is he doing?! Worse, he doesn’t regret it. Consequences be damned—he’ll die a happy death.

“Wriothesley?” Neuvillette’s voice breaks Wriothesley out of his stupor.

“Uh… haha… There was this cream on your face, I just had to…ugh,” Wriothesley rambles, slumping back into his chair. Wishes he could literally turn to a slime, drip like goo and melt into the floor. Yeah, that would be fucking great.

Well, shit. Maybe he should arrest himself and throw the key into the ocean.

“I see. I extend my gratitude to you then.” Neuvillette smiles, sweetly. (It does awful, terrible things to Wriothesley. Feels something clench painfully in his chest.)

Dumbfounded, he gapes at Neuvillette. Can’t believe the Iudex doesn’t want to sue Wriothesley for ‘molesting’ him in broad daylight.

If he didn't love you, do you think he'd put up with a tail-wagging dog, slobbering at his feet? Clorinde’s ridiculous words ring in his ears. And for one impossible, fantastical moment Wriothesley allows himself to believe her.

Fuck. But now he wants to kiss Neuvillette. Lick into his mouth and taste him. Wonders if Neuvillette would taste like petrichor and the shore. Briefly considers sucking his own thumb in hopes to catch Neuvillette’s aftertaste. But he dismisses the notion quickly. Wriothesley has gotten away with too much already. He shouldn’t risk more.

“D-don’t mention it.” Wriothesley chuckles, not just nervous but eager. “The thing… because of yesterday… I'll tell you tomorrow? Would you have time to meet me at the beach in the evening?”

“I’d have to check with Sedene to make sure, but I think it can be arranged. I’ll send a letter tomorrow to confirm it. I hope that is amenable for you?”

“Of course, whatever you say.”

Fantastic. As if things weren’t nerve wrecking enough. Should the reply be negative he’d have to knock on Neuvillette’s door again. Maybe he’d better confess now. Spare him another restless night worrying himself silly. But Clorinde is right. Some flowers would make a charming addition.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll confess without fault.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When Wriothesley arrives back at the Fortress, he has only a few accounts to check, and one or two brawls to break apart—nothing unusual. It lets him slip into a perfunctory mode. Settle everything with little to no thought. That gives him an accursed amount of freedom for his mind to wander.

It’s pure, sweet, agonizing torture.

It’s as if Neuvillette has seeped into every single nook and cranny of his mind. Wriothesley misses the feel of silver, smooth hair dripping endlessly from his hands. He’s still reeling from having spent the night at the Palais with Neuvillette sleeping on his lap. Can’t believe they had lunch together without discussing any business related topics at all. Feels like a thief for all the touches he’s stolen from Neuvillette. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d used up all the luck of his life today.

While it was usual for Wriothesley to think of Neuvillette on a daily basis, it has never been this intense. Maddening. This is all Clorinde’s fault and her stupid bet. (He has tossed the damn magazine in the first trash bin on his way back down.)

Wriothesley can’t wait for tomorrow to arrive sooner. Yearns for it with borderline desperation. At the same time, he dreads it with every fiber of his being.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The next day is a fucking catastrophe.

It starts with him waking up too late. In his haste to get up, Wriothesley falls out of bed and somehow hits his knee hard. He suppresses a wince as pain shoots through him so intensely, he feels blinded. He tries to ignore it with mediocre success, scrambling to his feet, and gets ready for the day.

Still not fully awake, he burns his tongue on the first sip of coffee. Startled by the searing pain, the mug slips from his fingers and it shatters into countless pieces.

He isn't superstitious, but it really feels like a bad sign.

Bending down to clean up the mess, Wriothesley freezes, realizing this isn't just any mug but his favorite teacup. This isn't a bad sign. It's a terrifying omen. Devastation slams into his gut.

He wants to fucking cry.

But then he remembers the smell of petrichor, endless silver hair, laughter as pure as dewdrops. Neuvillette. He'll confess to him tonight. The thought is as sweet as it is daunting but it's enough to make Wriothesley smile, his chest fluttering with crystalflies.

Encouraged, he pushes himself up to tackle the day.

However, anything that can go wrong does. From riots at the canteen to several machines malfunctioning in the production zone and countless complaints piling up at his desk, the Fortress is plunged into sheer chaos. The situation reminds Wriothesley painfully of the day when he first entered Meropide and it was like hell spitting into his face. To make matters worse, he even gets into a fight with Sigewinne over some trivial shit.

Could it get any worse?

Of course. Wriothesley is stretching himself thin, and it’s on his tenth cup of coffee that he has to accept there is no way he can leave the Fortress if he doesn’t want all his work to crumble into bits and pieces. That being said, he’s still waiting for Neuvillette’s letter.

No matter how fast Wriothesley works, time has turned into glue, a viscous matter making everything slow down and almost come to a standstill. He forces himself to keep going, fight the lethargy that threatens to swallow him whole. Desperate to finish his work on time despite the odds being against him.

A letter from the Palais finds Wriothesley frazzled and half-dead in the late evening.

He rips the envelope open, heart leaping to his throat but the smile on his face freezes after a cursory glance over the letter. It's not Neuvillette's pretty cursive but Sedene’s neat little handwriting.

Wriothesley collapses on his chair. The answer is as clear as day, if Neuvillette didn't even have time to write to him, nevermind meeting him at the beach today. This… it’s what he really deserves.

But he's given no time to process the message as Clorinde storms into his office. A sickeningly saccharine smile graces her face, as she presents him a frilly, pink dress. Though that might be too nice a description. It looks more like a belt with laces attached.

“No,” he growls. “The day isn't over yet, Clorinde. Let a man die in peace, will you please?”

“Alright, Wriothesley. I just want to make sure you keep the end of our bet.” She nods. “But I'm not sure if you can convince her to wait for tomorrow.”

“Her?”

To answer his question, no one else but Sigewinne steps from behind Clorinde. Her eyes crinkling to crescents. With trepidation, he notices the sharp, glinting razor in her tiny hands.

“If you let me shave your hair, I'll consider forgiving you,” she says, cutely tilting her head to the side.

“You all really can't wait to see me screwed up, huh?” Wriothesley says and breaks out into hysterical laughter.

This has to be a fucking nightmare. It's the last thing he thinks before his eyes snap open and he wakes up, lying in his bed, heaving.

With a pounding heart, Wriothesley stares into the darkness. It's still a bit early to get up. The details of the dream blur together, leaving him only with a feeling of heavy relief the horrors weren't real.

Thank God… that means he still has time to avoid losing the bet and tell Neuvillette about his feelings.

His heart lurches. Fuck. Wriothesley has to confess tonight! How the hell is he supposed to do that? What should he say? What if Neuvillette can't come? Or worse, what if he rejects Wriothesley… He doesn't want to make things awkward between them and ruin their relationship.

Suddenly, the prospect of turning Meropide into a circus for a month doesn't sound that bad compared to these outcomes. Wriothesley prays his dream isn't some fucked up premonition.

Pressing a palm to his chest, he takes a few deep breaths, hoping to calm his rampant heart down.

Ah, there's no point in wondering about what ifs. Whatever happens tonight, he'll live. Probably. Objectively speaking, he's survived worse. But subjectively… well, should things go south, Wriothesley might not mind kicking the bucket. (No, no. He isn't feeling like some stupid love-struck maiden—it’s obviously much, much worse.)

In contrast to his dream, Wriothesley's day proceeds rather uneventfully, to the point of being boring—if it weren't for his constant inner struggles. Agony and anticipation vie for his attention. It's impossible to put Neuvillette out of his mind. (Doesn't want to stop thinking about him, anyway.)

A highlight awaits him when he returns from lunch to his office. A small, rectangular package attached with a letter sits on his desk. It's from the Palais.

His heart pangs. But Wriothesley tries hard to curb his expectations (with little success).

Carefully, he opens the envelope. And peeks inside. It's… it's not Sedene’s handwriting but Neuvillette's fluid cursive.

The floor vanishes beneath his feet. Wriothesley leans against his desk to find some balance. Breath. Breath. He reminds himself and slowly pulls the letter out, trepidation consuming his trembling fingers.

My dear Wriothesley,

I hope this letter finds you well. Yesterday we found ourselves in unusual circumstances. I must say the reprieve from work was quite refreshing and pleasant. Your company always fills me with joy.

Therefore, it's with delight that I can confirm our encounter tonight at the beach. Looking forward to seeing you.

Yours truly,

Neuvillette

PS. You may find a little souvenir attached to this letter. Sedene made it, and I added a little touch to it. I hope it's to your liking. I'm quite taken with it.

…

!?

Stupefied, incredulous, Wriothesley gapes at the letter. Takes a minute to process its contents and… fails. He rereads it several times but the words trickle in his mind like water through a sieve. Presses his lips to ink and parchment as if that could help him decode the real meaning. But it only makes his yearning stronger.

Gently, he puts the letter aside, his attention drawing to the package. Brown paper rustles as he unwraps it, revealing–

A framed photograph.

Shaking, Wriothesley sucks in a breath.

The photo depicts Neuvillette and him, sleeping on the couch. The sight warms him as much as it's flustering.

The frame is decorated with little seashells and tiny Lumitoiles. It must be Neuvillette's handiwork. Too cute.

In the photo Wriothesley looks like an idiot with his mouth half-open, and head hanging to his side. However, Neuvillette is a revelation. Resting on Wriothesley's lap, he looks like a fucking dream. His gorgeous silver hair flows like a waterfall over Wriothesley's legs.

His mind reels.

It's a real photo of Neuvillette. Not just some blurry snapshot from a gossip magazine or a stiff newspaper image. Reverent, Wriothesley drags his thumb in a fluid motion over Neuvillette’s peaceful form as if he could touch him for real through the picture. He aches, aches so much he wants to cry.

And fuck, does Wriothesley want… no, needs to see Neuvillette now. Craves him like a parched, dying man who longs for water in the desert. How is he supposed to survive until the evening?

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The serene sound of waves caressing the beach does little to soothe Wriothesley’s burgeoning emotions as he paces around in circles, his shiny black shoes sinking into the soft sand. (He opted to go with a more casual outfit—a black dress shirt, first few buttons left undone, naturally, and burgundy-colored pants. Should Neuvillette appear in his formal wear, well… wouldn’t that be awkward?)

He survived work just fine. Or rather, if walking like a Melusine, his mind filled with cotton and a foolish grin plastered on his face counted as just fine. Not even Sigewinne’s teasing could get him out of his high. In fact, Wriothesley even accepted one of her abominable concoctions. Yeah, he’s pretty much out of his mind.

A warm breeze tousles his hair and his gaze drifts to the horizon. The sun hangs low in the sky, golden tendrils of light kissing the waves as if flirting with the sea. Wriothesley arrived a little early. Ok. No. That’s a lie. Way too early to be precise. He’s been strolling along the beach for at least an hour already.

(Sigewinne has booted him out of the Fortress after finding him tangled in a war with his wardrobe.

Her words: “You’re a killer regardless of what you wear. Now go get some fresh air or something.”

To which he replied: “Haha. Very funny. No need to rub salt into old wounds.”

She rolled her eyes and punched his arm: “Don’t be a baby. I’m speaking figuratively.”

How very lovely.)

He’s about to bend down and pick up a pretty seashell that shimmered a soft sapphire hue when he hears footsteps approaching.

“Wriothesley?”

The voice belongs unmistakably to Neuvillette. Static fills his mind. Slowly, Wriothesley turns around, a greeting on his lips but as soon as their eyes meet, the words morph into a single expression:

“Wow.”

And Wriothesley pats his chest just to make sure his heart hasn’t actually dropped to the ground. Rubs his eyes to make sure he isn’t facing a mirage.

“Neuvillette. You… you look…” Wriothesley’s mind scrambles for the perfect description: breathtaking, drop-dead gorgeous, to die for, and yet, what makes the final cut is: “...nice.”

Nice? Out of all the things, Wriothesley could have said, has he really settled for damn, plain nice?! He wants to be buried alive.

“That is a relief. I was afraid this might have been a bit too daring.” Neuvillette flows in a gradient ocean blue dress shirt, revealing a wisp of cleavage, foam white slacks highlighting his slender legs. Wriothesley wants to sink down on his knees.

Not only is it too daring, it’s scandalous, lethal. Worse than a left hook, sending him flying.

“It’s really nice.” Wriothesley repeats lamely, (but he means: you’re killing me). He struggles to not pull Neuvillette into a tight hug.

Neuvillette’s smile widens, a mysterious quality clinging to it and he tugs a loose hair strand behind his pointed ear, tinged pink. Entranced, Wriothesley watches his hand move only to realize Neuvillette isn’t wearing his gloves. Bare, uncovered skin almost blinds Wriothesley. He swallows as he takes in the sight of delicate fingers with well-trimmed… no, long, sharp nails, their tips glowing a soft azure. Shit. But now, he wants to know how they would feel, can’t help but imagine Neuvillette digging those claw-like nails piercing into the back of his skin.

“You don’t look bad yourself, Your Grace.”

“What.” While the praise makes his heart soar, the title throws him in for a loop until Wriothesley catches Neuvillette’s smirk—it’s a fucking tease.

Oh, Neuvillette will certainly be the death of him.

“I mean I hoped to impress our Iudex. Can’t afford to disappoint Your Honor, after all.” Winking, Wriothesley counters with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“Haha. You could never,” Neuvillette says, easily.

Too unfair: it’s another knife to Wriothesley’s heart with the impact of stars colliding in his chest. This isn't just an affirmation of trust but unadulterated faith. Feels the fabric of his being unraveling at the seams.

You could never.

What the fuck. Wriothesley needs a distraction before he bleeds out. Before he dissolves. Before those three words pull more threads of himself loose.

“The… photo,” he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “I didn't expect that. It's lovely. So, um, thanks.”

“Then you should extend your gratitude to Sedene. It was she who took the picture.” Neuvillette hides a chuckle behind his sinful hand.

“Was the gift also her idea?” Wriothesley dares to throw him a wolfish grin.

“Hardly. That was entirely on me… don’t… ahem… don’t think much of it, consider it a selfish whim.” A lopsided smile tickles the corner of Neuvillette’s mouth and Wriothesley wants to pluck the stars from the sky, tear his soul from his being and present everything at Neuvillette’s feet.

“Alright. But… let me return the gesture.” Wriothesley picks something from his pocket, feels the cool edges—still intact—good. “Don’t think much of it, just a selfish whim,” he whispers Neuvillette’s words right back and lifts a frozen Romaritime flower to his mouth, unfreezing it with a press of his lips to its petals.

Tiny snowflakes swirl into the air as Wriothesley tugs the flower behind Neuvillette’s ear. His touch lingers.

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette’s breath hitches. But he doesn’t pull away. Just watches him in wonder, his face flushing.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley rasps, his fingers brushing over Neuvillette’s ear shell. Tingles run like a riptide beneath his skin. Heat curls, tight and fervent in his stomach. Slowly, he cups Neuvillette’s cheek, his thumb caressing soft, white skin.

The last rays of sunlight splash over Neuvillette’s face. His eyes reflect the secrets of the ocean, the pretty swipe of his eyeliners magnified.

And Wriothesley feels like he’s drowning in that gaze, submerging in gentle and violent waves of desire. His other hand finds Neuvillette’s lithe waist and Wriothesley pulls them flush together.

Neuvillette places a hand against Wriothesley’s chest to shove him… no, oh fuck, but to grab a fistful of his black shirt. Like this, they’re impossibly close. Neuvillette’s breath caresses his skin and Wriothesley inhales him. The scent of the shore and petrichor overwhelm his senses.

Paradox: this moment is tense and tender. Intimate and dangerous.

Despite his agony and doubts, Wriothesley has never been so sure of his feelings for Neuvillette. Therefore, his words pour freely, hot and fervent like a well-steeped tea: “You’ve completely taken me apart. You’re the law to my soul, I want to follow you until the end of my days. I… I love you, Neuvillette. Will you be the lock to my key?”

It’s awful, terrible and cringe. But that’s what Wriothesley is—a complete disaster when faced with the man of his dreams. And he braces himself for the inevitable rejection.

“That… that was never my intention.” Neuvillette admits. And Wriothesley's heart stops, Clorinde had been wrong about this, it had been a mistake after all. Wriothesley is about to drop his hand from Neuvillette’s face when he feels a smooth palm pressing over his hand, trapping him and Neuvillette nuzzles into his touch.

“But…” Neuvillette speaks again and with it Wriothesley’s heart reignites with impossible hope.

It can’t be…

“Oh Wriothesley, I thought you’d never ask.” And then Neuvillette is on his mouth, plush lips pressed against his, soft and tender.

Wriothesley gasps. Shock ricocheting through his body, hard and intense like a thunderbolt.

Is Neuvillette kissing him?

It's a dream. It has to be. Or he just died. If not that Wriothesley must be having the most authentic-feeling hallucination. What did Sigewinne put in his milkshake?

But fuck. It feels too good to be a simple fabrication of his mind. And all of Wriothesley's thoughts are washed away.

Neuvillette is really kissing him. The warmth and pressure of his lips is sublime, a perfect mold against Wriothesley's mouth. Feels the tight, possessive hold of Neuvillette's hand, clinging to his shirt.

And Wriothesley groans, pouring his soul into the kiss, his tongue slips out daring to touch the seam of Neuvillette's mouth.

Moaning, Neuvillette parts his lips and Wriothesley licks into him, slow and exploratory.

His hand slides to the back of Neuvillette's nape, his blunt nails scraping soft flesh and he pulls them even closer, their hips grinding in slow revolutions against each other.

Heat stirs, needy and dangerous in his stomach.

Wriothesley traces the ridges of Neuvillette's teeth. His canine teeth are pointed, sharper than human ones. It sends a thrill down his spine.

Their tongues tangle together in a fervent, frenzied dance. And Neuvillette’s tongue is smoother, cooler and inhumanly longer. Curls around Wriothesley’s tongue, mapping out his mouth full of intense passion, matching Wriothesley’s ache.

Wriothesley's head spins. It's dizzying, heady and perfect. He feels wanted, desired and loved.

They only part briefly for air before devouring each other again. This time with more confidence and even more greed. It's messy and sloppy; he feels saliva drip down his jaw.

Neuvillette purrs against Wriothesley’s mouth, sucking his bottom lip, those sharp fang-like canine teeth graze his sensitive skin, making Wriothesley shudder. Leaving him hard, breathless and wanting.

His large, calloused hand tangles with silvery, fluid hair and his fingers touch a soft, smooth texture. Is this one of Neuvillette's blue thingies? He pulls and squeezes it, and Neuvillette keens, baring his swan-like neck. Wriothesley latches onto the offering like a parched man, leaving a trail of marks down Neuvillette's throat.

“Fuck, you're incredible, sweetness,” Wriothesley rasps, licking into Neuvillette's ear.

“Ngh,” Neuvillette gasps, sweet and hot. His claw-like nails scrape over the scars on Wriothesley's neck. And his other hand trails down, tugging at Wriothesley's belt.

Wriothesley's soul flees his body.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley croaks through the haze of his lust-addled mind. “Wait.” He grabs Neuvillette’s wrist and Neuvillette stills.

Sapphire eyes glow, intense, iridescent, incandescent—mirroring Wriothesley's desire.

“D-don’t you think we're… we're moving too fast?” Wriothesley swallows, forcing his tongue to form words.

“I thought your confession entailed your desire to bed me?” Neuvillette tilts his head, long eyelashes fluttering. Silver hair strands falling over his face. He's… he's temptation manifest.

Shit. Wriothesley wants to die. How many times has he fantasized about claiming Neuvillette? His desire and need—simply unbearable agony. Yet, now is he chickening out? No. That's not quite it.

“My desire to bed…?” Wriothesley feels overwhelmed. Reaches out to catch those wayward strands and presses a kiss to the liquid silver before tugging them behind Neuvillette's ear. Stalling time to find his footing again, calming the effervescence raging in his blood.

“Well, that's not untrue but…” here, out in the open? Where anyone could see? Wriothesley left it unsaid. Far be it from him to pretend to be prim and proper. Yet, to think the Iudex could be this shameless—what a shocker.

“Then I fail to see the problem. Have I not expressed my interest well enough?”

“Haha. Oh, no. You definitely have, sweetness. It's just I expected you to shoot me down, but now I feel so fucking happy I could die. I'm not sure I can handle more than this right now,” Wriothesley assures him. It's surreal. Can't believe they just kissed as if their lives depended on it.

Slowly, he wraps his arms around Neuvillette in a comforting embrace. Tight enough to feel close, loose enough to break free should he so desire.

“But you're aroused.” Neuvillette sounds upset on his behalf. It's too cute. Wriothesley melts on the spot.

“Don’t worry about that, baby. I just want to hold you right now…” Wriothesley tries to explain. Wants to savor and treasure Neuvillette. Love and worship him like he deserves it. If they slept together now, Wriothesley knows he wouldn't last a second.

“Very well. But should you change your mind, know that I'm always available.” Neuvillette loops his arms around Wriothesley's neck, bringing them closer.

The insanity! Wriothesley makes a choked noise at the back of his throat. Who is this?

Flustered: “S-sure. That's, uh, great to know… hope I'm not disappointing you.”

Indignant: “Didn’t I already say you could never?”

“Yeah… but that was before…”

“Wriothesley. What is really bothering you?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.

Neuvillette gives him the look.

“It's silly. Man, you won't let me have some dignity, huh? Well, it's… you didn't say it back.” Wriothesley exhales, defeated.

“Say what back?” Neuvillette insists.

For the perceptiveness Neuvillette possesses, it's surprising how dense he can be.

“That you… love me,” Wriothesley says, trying and failing not to pout.

Neuvillette blinks and then breaks out laughing.

Wriothesley punches his arm. “Hey, it's not that funny.”

“My apologies. It's been a long time since I had a lover, my skills regarding romance are quite rusty. Please have it in you to forgive this old man.”

“Aiyah, don't sweat it. Besides, you didn't even have to try to steal my heart. It's been yours for so long now. Meanwhile, I must have made myself into a complete fool just in hopes you looked at me.”

“I’ve never considered you a fool. You're a capable, charming young man. And you captivated me quite some time ago. Only, I couldn't tell why you were so very dear and precious to me. That is until today. So, I'm very much enamored with you, Wriothesley. I love you too.”

Neuvillette’s words are tender and sweet, filled with affection and sincerity. He isn't sugarcoating. Isn't the type to simply offer shallow comfort. No. If anything, Neuvillette is brutally honest.

It's too much.

Wriothesley feels raw and vulnerable like an open wound. His eyes burn.

“Sweetness, you'll really be the death of me,” Wriothesley murmurs, their noses brushing together.

“Don’t be silly.” Neuvillette gives him a secret smile, kissing his tears away. “Beloved.” Neuvillette's mouth trails down Wriothesley’s cheek, and their lips melt together in a languid, sweet kiss full of soft and tender affection.

In their gentle embrace and indulgent exchange of kisses, Wriothesley finds a harbor of safety, the warmth of belonging—a precious joy he'd thought forever out of his reach, having eluded him for most of his life.

Neuvillette's lips don't only taste of the ocean; they also carry the overflowing taste of true love.