Archive of Our Own

It’s a busy day in the Palais Mermonia, although that’s nothing new for Neuvillette. Even the level of busyness, both in general and for him personally, isn’t new anymore. It’s a busy day, but it’s also a perfectly normal day. It also happens to be a loud day. For whatever reason, the emotions in the water have slipped through the mental barrier he’s carefully crafted over centuries, ringing around in his head and demanding to be heard and paid attention to. He’s not sure why; he’s not any more stressed than usual and he’s been handling himself well. Maybe there was another crack that he missed, that he couldn’t patch over in time. He should be better at catching them by now, but… well, it doesn’t really matter after the fact, does it? He wishes it wasn’t this way, though.

He never asked for this. He never asked for the world to be so loud, for the voices of people to be ever-present, for the noise to never stop. Wishes whispered to be swallowed by the sea, dreams shared by riverbeds as paper boats are sent downstream, sorrows washed into the gutter by the rain, they all mingle until they are spread across the entirety of Fontaine. Until there is not even a single place for him in this nation that is truly to himself.

And yet, this is what he was given. A gift, many would say. Perhaps it is, in some way. To learn from a single drop the true feelings of a person, no lie they hide behind ever enough to stop him from knowing. To always be able to feel the truth behind whatever walls a person puts up. Yes, that could be a blessing. Humans do love to overcomplicate even the most simple matters, so getting to the heart of things in an instant would be unimaginably useful to them.

But everything is better in moderation. To pick a shade of grey instead of being stuck at a bright and blinding white or an all-consuming black. At this point, he’d take the nothingness of that second option. How peaceful would it be to think and not be flooded with the hopes and despairs of the people of Fontaine? He could let go of ghosts that have long since faded from the public consciousness, be free to feel and know that whatever it is in his heart, it’s most definitely his own. He could simply exist…

That’s not an option for him, though. So long as there is even the smallest drop of water in Fontaine, he will feel everything contained in it. Every joy, every sorrow, every memory, forever preserved in the waters, forever given to him in an endless tidal wave battering him against the rocks of a cliff.

He’s just… tired. Tired in a way sleep can’t fix. Tired in a way that has become familiar, something close to a dear friend. And he knows he should care about this fatigue, he should find some way to fix it, but he can’t bring himself to anymore. Before, when he was younger, he tried. Desperately, he tried, nearly frantic in the way he scrambled to find an ounce of silence. True silence. Yet it eluded him, always just out of reach, slipping away before he could grab on and hold it down for dear life. Every failure stung like salt water seeping into an open wound, only serving to make him more frustrated and upset until he couldn’t take it anymore. Until he simply gave up.

It’s not something he’s proud of. A small part of him, draconic and purely instinctual, scoffs at his weakness. A larger part of him agrees. He is a sovereign, a proper god of this world, he should be able to handle failure. But century after century after century of nothing but failure and the overwhelming emotions of the people of this nation wore on his soul. Perhaps he was premature with his acceptance of this fact of his existence, but does that matter now when the decision has already been made so long ago?

He doesn’t think so. The fact remains the same, no matter when he resigned himself to it: the world is loud, painfully so, and he cannot escape it. The depths are comforting, but he still gets swept up in the current of emotion and memory around him. The mountaintops are refreshingly cool, but in the nation of Hydro, even the humidity up there manages to be unbearable, hopes and dreams both whole and shattered clamouring for space in his head.

This is his hell, permanently drowning in something he doesn’t understand. Something that just keeps growing and growing as more people live and die, letting their existences imprint on the water around them. Forever full, forever chaotic, forever driving him to the brink. Just one good push, and…

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” Sedene peeks her head through and walks right in when he meets her gaze. “Reports from major recovery areas are here.” She reaches up to place the stack of papers on his desk. A part of him wilts at seeing his work grow right in front of him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. She must see it about him, though, her keen eyes finding what he wishes she couldn’t, because she seems to mellow out with her next sentence.

“I think it might be good news this time, since nothing was marked as urgent.” He can only hum in response. “I’ve also heard from Aeife that the Duke has come up to the surface today. He doesn’t seem to be here for business, just some sun.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear. I know he likes to enjoy the fresh air when he can.”

“I can get a message to him if you want. You aren’t too busy today, so I’m sure you could grab a meal with him if you wanted to.” And be outside? Have the voices of the people mix with their feelings already jumbled in his head?

“I wouldn’t want to bother him. I’m not so sure I would make good company today, and I would rather he has a nice time while up on the surface. Thank you, though, for offering to reach out for me.” She doesn’t seem happy at that response, but she doesn’t press for a different answer. Instead, she gives him a gentle look, tinged with sorrow but with no intent to act.

“Of course. Good luck with your work, Monsieur. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you.” Sedene gives him a small smile before she turns and leaves, gently closing the door behind her. He immediately slumps in his chair, running a hand over his face as a sigh from the very depths of his soul escapes his lips.

This is too much. Not the work, those reports will be read and handled just fine along with the cases he’s still overseeing and the legislation he’s still working on changing. No, the work will never be too much to him. But the world, the sounds, the sensations, the hopes, the nightmares… it’s all too much.

As it should be. Disaster breeds turmoil, even if the worst case scenario was avoided. It’s nothing unexpected or unusual in that regard. All is as it should be considering the circumstances. It’s just… too much. Far too much.

He can hardly focus on what’s in front of him. He only manages to read a couple words before the cacophony in his head pulls him out of the sentence, drowning out what little he had read so nothing but noise remains. Someone’s joy fills his chest, another’s fear forms a pit in his stomach. Jitters from someone’s first day make his arms and hands shake ever so slightly, someone else’s anger sits at the top of his head, yet another person’s anxiety makes him feel sick. He feels everything, everywhere, and it just. Doesn’t. Stop.

There’s an uncomfortable… what is it, pressure? A pressure all over his body, pressing both into and out of his skin. And these horrible, over-the-top clothes, they just never sit right, no amount of adjusting or shifting ever fixes it. Oh, he hates it, he hates it. Despise, despise is a better word. He wants to tear them off, rip apart his own skin and dissolve into nothing.

If he did that, would he be free of this? Could he finally think clearly? Would he finally know which emotions are his own? Or would the silence be jarring, like the absence of wildlife after a natural disaster? What would it feel like? He’s sure he could imagine it, but with how often reality has either dodged or shattered his expectations, he’s not so sure whatever he’d imagine would be accurate. Even so, it would have to be better than this, no?

………

……

…

Would it hurt to try?

His own question is so quiet, a whisper more than anything, but it manages to catch his attention even amongst the hellish noise in his head. He wants to banish it as soon as he thinks it, but some small part of him picks up the idea and turns it over, considering it. A moment of pain for a possible eternity of blissful silence… it very nearly is worth it, isn’t it…?

It’s also foolish. Selfish. Acting so unabashedly in self-interest when he’s still needed? How could he have entertained the idea, even for just a second? How could he have let himself think that way? Just to, what, avoid some discomfort? Discomfort, really? He’s better than this, stronger than this. Or he should be, at least.

Maybe he’s gone soft… no, not maybe, he definitely has. He’s soft and weak and, and, oh does it matter? He’s falling apart, ripping at the seams without even needing to dig his nails into his flesh to do so. Crumbling to something that’s simply a fact of his existence, something he’s lived with for so long and should be used to by now. So why isn’t he? Why can’t he just grin and bear it?

Weak. So weak, so useless, what an utter disappointment. A disgrace of a sovereign, a shameful excuse of a chief justice. Should such a sorry creature really be trusted with the lives and wellbeing of an entire nation?

No. Absolutely not. But he has to, he has to, there’s no option not to, oh but he wishes there was, he’d be despicable for it but oh, please, please, let him disappear, just for a moment, that’s all he wants, just a moment to be nothing more than a soul in a void, just a moment to be nothing, he’ll come back, he has to come back, he only needs a moment please just a moment it’s all so loud so loud so loud please make it stop–

The creak of the door opening cuts through his scrambled thoughts and pulls him back into reality. The room is dark, the sun having long since set, the papers on his desk in the exact same state they were in hours ago. Hours, hours? Has it really been that long? Oh, those reports, he should have looked at those ages ago, what–

“Hey…” The familiar voice, soft with concern, abruptly stops his thoughts from running wild again, tugging his gaze up to meet such a gentle expression.

“Wriothesley?” Why? “What are you doing here?” His voice sounds so weak, he can’t help but wince at it.

“I wanted to see you,” Wriothesley says, as if the simple answer is the only reason. But it’s not, they both know it’s not. Not tonight, at least. “That, and the Melusines I passed by today seemed pretty worried. Word travels quick through them, you know.” Ah, there it is. Neuvillette sighs, moreso out of resignation than frustration. He can’t be upset at Sedene for being worried and going to her sisters, nor can he be upset at Wriothesley for feeling the same and acting on said feelings when he inevitably asked one of them what’s wrong.

“I do. I had hoped it wouldn’t, but that’s the same as hoping the tides won’t change. I truly don’t mean to worry anyone, I will be fine.”

“And I don’t think anyone doubts that. But, right now, how are you?” Right now? Right now he wants to crawl out of his skin and disappear into the waves, to tear his flesh apart and become one with the sea once more, to never hear or feel or think again. Barring that…

“I am… managing.” It’s not a lie. He is managing himself. Not well, but well enough. In a sense.

“Managing, huh?” The meaning doesn’t go unnoticed by Wriothesley, who cocks his head ever so slightly as his gaze digs into Neuvillette, but Neuvillette absolutely refuses to elaborate. He can’t bear laying himself bare to Wriothesley right now. No, for now, he merely hums in response. Wriothesley’s eyes flit to the stacks of paperwork on his desk, seeming offended in Neuvillette’s stead at the sheer volume of it before shaking free whatever thoughts he had and offering a hand to Neuvillette. “That pile will still be waiting for you tomorrow. Want to come up to bed?”

“Do you not have to go back to Meropide now?”

“It’ll be waiting for me tomorrow, too. Unless you’d rather be by yourself now, in which case I’ll leave you be. But either way, I’d rather make sure you’ll be resting instead of staying up here and running yourself into the ground.”

“That is very kind of you…” Too kind. He shouldn’t have to put himself out like that just on account of Neuvillette. Just to take care of him… oh, that really is too much. Far too much. He just… he wishes Wriothesley’s kindness would hit a limit at some point. It would do him good, to focus on his own happiness and comfort in the times when Neuvillette’s own is as distant as the stars hung in the sky. He can wait for it, he’s always waited for it, he doesn’t mind. But Wriothesley shouldn’t wait with him or work himself up over trying to bring it closer to him. He doesn’t need that kindness from him. Not that much of it. He can wait. It’s okay.

“Neuvillette?”

“Ah, yes?” He pulls his gaze from the pile of paper it drifted to and forces his focus back on Wriothesley. His brow is pinched in concern, his mouth a thin line, but he doesn’t ask the question both of them know he’s dying to. No, he asks a smaller one instead. One that, if the circumstances were different, would be much easier to answer, but now is only marginally so.

“Do you want me to stay? Or do you want to head up yourself?” Yes. No. Why does he ask? Can he not see how much of a disaster he is? Why would he even offer to stay? Please stay. Please go. Leave him be. Don’t leave him alone. Please…

“I’m not sure, I’m afraid,” he says, his voice painfully small. “My apologies, I am not feeling at my best.” Again, not a lie. He is merely choosing to avoid mentioning how far from his best he’s feeling. Wriothesley doesn’t need to know this. He doesn’t. It’s okay.

“Let me at least walk up with you to your apartment. You can tell me there if you want me to stay or not.” Wriothesley is on the cusp of pleading with him, he can tell. The slight squint in his eyes, the pinch in brows, all tells he’s learned and is doing his best to focus on and find right now because he’s sure if he doesn’t, he’ll miss such minute details. But what confirms it, what told him in the first place, is a concern with Wriothesley’s voice becoming the loudest one in the cacophony in his head. That is a sound Neuvillette refuses to allow, especially when he is the cause of it.

“Alright.” He pushes himself up from his chair, swaying as the motion pulls him from his body and leaves his consciousness reeling, drifting. He catches himself on his desk before he falls, bracing himself and staring off into nothing as he waits patiently to return to himself enough to walk. Somewhere in that distance he stares off into, he sees Wriothesley, an expression on his face he can’t quite decipher. Worry is there, he can tell that much, but it’s restrained, held back in favour of… what? His eyes can’t focus quite right anymore, he can’t tell…

It only takes a moment for it to pass. Well, pass enough for him to push through the feeling of nothing being real. He still feels distant from himself, feels as if he’s blanketed in cotton as he watches a first-person view of his own life. In control, yet unable to control himself. Able to move, but sluggish in every movement he takes. Slow in understanding and reacting to the world he’s trying and failing to force himself to be present in, if just for a moment longer.

He can’t get his mouth to open, much less make a sound, but Wriothesley’s already at the door, opening it and waiting patiently for him as he trudges through his office. He makes no comments, gives no sidelong glances towards him, just simply waits for Neuvillette to leave the room before closing and locking the door behind them.

Everyone has long since gone home for the night, the Palais almost eerily empty compared to what he’s used to. Even Sedene is no longer here, probably fast asleep at home instead. A place usually filled with the rustle of paper, clack of typewriters, and chatter of people now only echoes their footsteps against marble floors; it makes everything feel… hollow.

Hollow… feeling hollow is undoubtedly a sign of something wrong. He knows how it eats away at your very being until there’s only a thin skin left. He knows how simultaneously numb and terrifying it feels, not drowning but in free fall. A chill from the rush where emotions should settle but instead just fly past. Yes, feeling hollow is undoubtedly a horrible experience, but he can’t help yearning for it now.

Wouldn’t it be more peaceful, to feel nothing at all? To be hollow like the halls of the Palais currently are, not even a whisper to disturb him? It might unnerve him, it might not be pleasant, but it would be better than feeling what every person who ever has and currently is living in Fontaine is feeling, no? Their voices would still be ringing in his head, but at least there would be no emotions to cast him into a fog. It would be better, right?

There wouldn’t be any outward difference to the people. He would remain the same stoic judge they have always known, that he has always been. The only difference would be a peace within himself, a stillness that comes from being so thoroughly emptied of feeling. If only he notices the difference, and it doesn’t affect his work, then surely that’s the better option.

But how would he get himself to feel that way? It was never purposeful, always crashing into and through him without any warning. A wave of grief so loud it silenced everything else, a sense of hopelessness so strong he couldn’t find it in himself to fight it. A complete and utter overwhelm that tipped right back around into nothingness. So is that the solution, then? To embrace this hell so thoroughly that his mind simply shuts off from the world? To let himself be battered by the voices and beaten down by their emotions until nothing is left?

That’s not better at all. No, there’s no good option, no better option, no choice at all he could make that could possibly make this even slightly more bearable. He’s stuck here, arms still shaky from someone’s waning excitement, his head stuffed full of cotton, ears ringing, vision blurry, legs weak. He’s a walking disaster, one misstep away from breaking right where he is.

But knowing that doesn’t change anything. Awareness doesn’t bring clarity or understanding to a situation, it doesn’t grant him an epiphany on how to escape the hell he’s forced to experience every waking moment of his indefinite life. Awareness only serves as yet another weight on his mind as he watches his body start to fail him, pointing to the exact things that cause his mind to shut down and his body to simply give out from the sheer flood of information without even offering a clue on how to keep himself afloat.

It’ll pass. That thought is the shoddy piece of driftwood that’s kept him above the surface of these crashing waves of emotion and sensation for his entire life. He may be choking on the salty spray, hardly able to even breathe, but it’s something to cling to, even if the splinters dig into his skin and irritate his battered and bruised soul. It’s something to hold on to, even if it’s utterly unhelpful and useless.

It’ll pass. It’ll pass it’ll pass it’ll pass. A mantra that serves no purpose but he repeats out of instinct, out of desperation. It’ll pass. It always has. It’s just… oh it’s awful. Awful, awful, awful, but there’s no quiet place to curl up and find respite in. No, there’s nowhere. Just bear it. Just push through. It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass. Then return, then pass again, an unpredictable tide ebbing and flowing. But it will pass. He simply needs to wait…

A shadow falls over his face, and he stumbles as he stops himself just short of running into whatever is in front of him. He looks up wearily, sluggishly, his mind slow to realise he nearly ran into Wriothesley, who’s standing still and looking at him with a thin veil of amusement over his concern. Neuvillete glances around himself listlessly, his eyes pausing once they land on a familiar door. Ah, right, he was being walked up to his apartment.

He turns his gaze back to Wriothesley, simply staring at him as he waits for his brain to tell him why Wriothesley is looking at him expectantly. It’s just barely there, right at the edge of his consciousness, the noise in his head blurring it to him. But it’s there, it’s there, if he can just get himself to focus on it for a second and not let it slip out of his grasp…

“So, what are you thinking?” “Do you want me to stay?” Oh, yes, yes. Please. Please.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind staying?” A gentle smile crosses Wriothesley’s face, small and oh so tender.

“Of course not,” he says, his voice soft. Nearly too soft, nearly lost in the cacophony in Neuvillette’s mind. But even if he couldn’t hear him, his expression is answer enough: icy eyes long melted into something gentle, that sweet smile still lingering on his lips, his head canted to the side ever so slightly the way he does only when looking at him adoringly. Adoringly. Oh, that’s too much…

Wriothesley takes a small step back and lets Neuvillette open the door, following him quietly into his apartment. The two of them are engulfed in darkness when Wriothesley closes it behind them, only the faintest light of the moon marking a sliver of the room in a faint silver beam. How annoying… frustrating… grating… but it can’t be avoided.

Neuvillette pauses, taking a moment to let this… this anger, irrational as it is, at the light to pass. Wriothesley, on the other hand, is quick to take off his boots and hang up his coat on a hook. He lingers by Neuvillette’s side, watching him intently as he sighs and leans against the wall. Ever kind, ever well-meaning, he kneels down and smooths his hand down Neuvillette’s leg. It’s enough to shake the anger from Neuvillette’s mind and pull his gaze down to his beloved’s face.

“Let me?” Wriothesley asks, gently tugging at one of the clasps on his spats. Neuvillette shakes his head, a silent plea for space, and Wriothesley backs off.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says as he bends down, slowly undoing the clasps himself. “Truly, I do. But I can manage.” I cannot bear to let you see me as weak.

“I’ll get ready for bed then, yeah?” He nods, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see a faint smile tug at Wriothesley’s lips. “Alright. I’ll wait for you once I’m all set.” He watches Wriothesley turn and disappear into the bedroom, swallowed up completely by the darkness. He’s partial to the softness of the pitch dark, but that… that image makes his stomach drop, leaving a gaping hollowness in its wake. It’s only the sheer chaos in his mind that opens the gates to this currently unwarranted fear, but still… still…

This anxiety isn’t useful right now. Certainly not helpful. But it bubbles up inside him, matching the force he uses to push it down to fill up any space not taken up by the lives of others. It buzzes in his veins, makes him weightless, at its mercy even though he knows, he knows, that he doesn’t need to be. An emotion unchecked will always win against logic, no matter the effort put in to stop it. And unchecked doesn’t do justice to the state he finds himself in… he is completely undone, unable to properly grab hold of all the emotions — both his own and of others — and shove them down to keep them in line.

But he cannot crumble. Not yet. Not yet… emotion can’t win… it can’t… it can’t. So he takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries one last time to force this bubbling, buzzing anxiety down and away. It can’t win. He refuses to let it win, even as it seeps through his grasp and clouds his already overcrowded mind with a suffocating fear.

He doesn’t shake, he doesn’t fumble with the clasps, but he finds himself at once going too fast and too slow with taking off his spats. Too fast to do it ‘properly’, too slow to do it efficiently. What does ‘properly’ even mean? How can he possibly be doing it wrong if he doesn’t have a definition of doing it right? He’s never had a definition of doing it right because there’s no way of doing it wrong. And yet, with whatever clarity is left, his mind screams at him that he’s somehow messed this up. Too fast and too slow, adding onto each other instead of cancelling out… how infuriating.

But there’s nothing to do except let that frustration bubble and mix with his anxiety as he unceremoniously drops his spats on the floor. Let it fester as he takes off his shoes and pads silently over to the window, tugging the curtains shut just a bit too harshly. Let it fizzle out into a general unease as he stands in place, curtains still clutched in his fists, unable to make himself move. He just… stands, and stares, his mind so cluttered that for a moment it feels blank.

It’s only a moment. Or maybe two. Or three. He’s not entirely sure. Emptiness fades into chaos and back again, in and out, in and out, there’s no use trying to make the distinction between the two. So he keeps standing. He keeps staring. His grip loosens, but otherwise he’s motionless.

Then his arms drop. And slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, he can get himself to move. The blank static of chaos finally fades and doesn’t come back. For now. So, while he can, he drags himself forward, towards the darkness of his bedroom.

Wriothesley is already sitting on the edge of the bed by the time Neuvillette manages to get himself through the door, dressed in a spare set of looser night clothes Neuvillette got specifically for when he decides to stay the night. Wriothesley turns to him, those sky blue eyes going soft when his gaze lands on him. But there’s a sorrow in them too, gentle and quiet, nearly hidden but still shining through. Oh, he can’t bear to meet that gaze.

So he doesn’t. He turns his eyes to the floor and makes his way to the dresser, trying desperately to ignore how that gaze burns on his back, to shove it deep into the pandemonium of sensations he’s drowning in. It doesn’t work.

He lets out a pathetic wheeze of a laugh at that. Of course it doesn’t. Of course. That’s just how it is, isn’t it? Why did he think he could control such a feeling when he himself is unmoored, adrift in this sea of sensations and emotions with no way to bring himself back to shore. A sovereign with no control… what a sorry sight he must make.

“Neuvillette?” He can’t bear to look at the source of that voice. He can’t bear it. He can hear the concern etched into it, and he knows the expression of the face he’ll meet. He can’t bear it. So he gently shakes his head instead as he peels off the layers of clothes weighing him down, scratching and pressing into his skin in a way he just can’t stand.

He doesn’t feel any better once it’s all off. He wasn’t expecting to, but that pang of disappointment still hits. Some small part of him had still hoped, still wished, that at least this would be an easy fix. But no, it’s not, of course it’s not; the phantom of those fabrics still dances across his skin, draped across him in such a wrong way but he can’t shift or fix it. They’re not on him to fix, they’re dropped in a disgraceful pile on the floor. It’s just a feeling he can’t get rid of, can’t be free of. But he wasn’t really expecting anything else.

The night clothes he puts on are… somewhat comfortable at least. But they’re loose, they catch on his body in ways he wishes they wouldn’t. He can’t stop tugging at the sleeves or pulling on the waistband to make it all sit right, but they refuse any and all attempts to become even marginally more bearable. He can’t stand it. He can’t stand it. He wants to tear them off, too, toss them in that heap of clothes on the floor and forget about them. Maybe he should, Wriothesley wouldn’t care. He’s laid bare with him more than a few times, it wouldn’t be anything strange or unbecoming.

But Neuvillette still cares. He wants to keep some semblance of… normalcy? Competence? Ability? The word used doesn’t really matter. He just wants to keep pretending he’s okay, that he’s not one wrong touch or one kind word away from crumbling right where he stands, even though he knows he’s not convincing anyone. Certainly not Wriothesley, and most definitely not himself.

But the act itself is a comfort. No matter how he is ripping apart, no matter how shoddy his performance is, it’s a constant in his life, a point of stability amongst the turmoil. It’s a pain so twisted and familiar, so reliable in the sea of change, that he can’t view it as anything but comfort. That even as he bristles at the edges and planes of the mask he wears, feeling it dig into his very being as if begging to draw blood, he can’t bear the thought of taking it off. No, he welcomes it, relishing in that comfortable pain because it reminds him that at least he’s trying. Even if it’s futile, even if it’s meaningless, even if others want him to stop, even if he wants to stop, at least he’s still trying. At least he is still putting his effort into being something useful.

So he keeps trying. He stops picking at the shirt to try and futilely rearrange it so it doesn’t make him feel he’s going insane, he shoves down the way his skin feels far too tight and uncomfortable and wrong, he forces himself to simply let the emotions and memories of thousands of others beat against his mind and soul until he can’t form a coherent thought even if he wanted to. Until he can’t even care that the fabric of his night clothes rustles too loud and the faint light of the moon slips through a crack in the curtains and demolishes his safe, dark room. He can’t care anymore.

Or at least, he doesn’t have the energy left to act on caring for those things anymore. All of that energy is going towards his terrible performance of being alright, of forcing himself to not waste it on trying to fix things he knows he can’t fix. Energy spent on not spending energy… hah, how ridiculous. How contradictory and utterly senseless. Not that that will stop him, but… well, it is interesting, at least. Maybe Wriothesley would even know how to spin a joke out of this; he’s sure he could. Maybe he would be able to laugh it off, then, instead of… no, he’d still be in hell, but at least he could laugh at his own pain as well. That’d have to be better than this, no?

He’ll save that for another day. For now, he’ll focus on not tearing his own skin to shreds and simply falling asleep. As if such an action could be simple when there is nothing but noise that grates at his soul, when his own body rubs the edges of his very being raw. If he digs into those edges, would it soothe him? Would the wounds sting, or would his blood calm him the same way water streaking down his body in a downpour does?

No, no, no blood, no scratching or tearing or ripping. He must stay whole. He has to. He… he’s not sure why, but he has to. And blood is difficult to wash out of clothes and sheets anyways; it’d be such a hassle to deal with in the morning. He doesn’t have the time for that, he can’t care about that when there are so many other, more important things he needs to handle. No, it’s not worth it. Not at all.

It would be so much simpler if he could just abandon this body. Leave it to rot somewhere while he floats free in the current. It would be one less thing to worry about, one less ingredient in the hellish concoction of sensations he has to experience. If he could no longer feel, physically feel, then perhaps the noise would be easier to bear. If he were truly a part of the water, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a spot to himself, as far from the rest of the world as possible, far from blinding sunlight and senseless chatter. Somewhere calmer, somewhere quieter. Somewhere where, maybe, just maybe, it could be easier to exist.

“Neuvillette…?” Oh, Wriothesley…

“My apologies, I was lost in thought,” he says, shaking his head to try to banish the thoughts in his head. The lack of success is expected, and he sighs as he finally joins Wriothesley on the edge of the bed, falling against him limply. He buries his face in the crook of Wriothesley’s neck and does his best to block out the sliver of light through the curtains and the incessant shifting and rubbing of his loose clothes on his skin. The press of Wriothesley’s body against his own only makes it worse, it makes him want to push Wriothesley away and run to the most secluded corner of his apartment. Whatever pathetic shred of energy he has left goes to simply laying against Wriothesley without fidgeting or writhing, letting strong arms wrap gently around him and attempt to soothe him.

“Oh, my love…” Wriothesley murmurs, softly, gently, and something in him starts to crack at that kindness, unable to bear its weight. It’s heavy on his heart, slowly breaking his soul in two with every fond gesture, every caring word, every simple smile. And he must have gone so soft, must have become so weak, because he can’t help caving in to that kindness.

“I’m tired…” he whispers, “so… tired…” Wriothesley hums in response, rubbing his back slowly and pulling him just a little closer.

“You do a lot of work for this nation. More than you should– and I know saying that won’t stop you, but still. Anyone else would have collapsed long ago. No one will blame you for being tired.”

“That’s not why.”

“Oh?”

“I–” His voice catches in his throat, something broken falling out in its place. How unseemly. How pathetic. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “There are many emotions and memories in the waters. None are my own, as far as I can tell. I am simply tired from experiencing it all at the moment.” He turns his head further from the light, looking up to catch a glimpse of Wriothesley’s face and waiting for his response.

“That–” Wriothesley hesitates, his brow creased in… thought? Concern? Something Neuvillette’s mind just refuses to place. Wriothesley sighs as he starts to gently run his hands through Neuvillette’s hair, as if trying to smooth away the fatigue dragging him further and further downwards. “Yeah… that sounds exhausting.”

“I’ll be fine. I simply need to wait it out. It’ll fade back into the background eventually, and I’ll be fine. Truly, I will be, so please don’t worry.”

“I can’t promise to not worry, but I trust that you’ll feel better.”

“Mmm.” His hum of an answer fades into the night, swallowed by the silence blanketing the room and the pandemonium in his head. It leaves the two of them in a lull, a pause that would almost be peaceful if Neuvillette didn’t find it so utterly infuriating. It tempts him with what he wants; the silence of the room, the steadiness of Wriothesley’s breaths, the gentleness of those hands in his hair and on his back, these are all things he loves, that he craves in this moment. But he can’t feel them, not properly. Not with the voices and emotions in his head screaming, shrieking, demanding to be a part of what should be a moment for him and Wriothesley alone.

It’s just all so loud. So loud, so chaotic, so painful. A whine stutters out of him, a sharp, breathy sound as he curls even further into Wriothesley’s side to try to hide from the noise. As if that could help him escape it all… oh how he wishes it could. If he could just curl up small enough, if he could just find a place to hide and avoid it, if he could just melt into this embrace and leave this hellish cacophony behind…

Wriothesley shifts a little beneath him, snapping his thoughts back to the present. As much to the present as they can be, at least, with all of the voices and emotions and memories still filling his mind to the brim. Wriothesley sighs, something small and soft, but Neuvillette knows what it means. A break in the relative silence, a quiet voice laced with worry and love, a gentle prod to either confirm or sate his concern.

“Could I help?” It’s a simple question. An offer, really, one to accept or reject with no expectation either way. But to reject would be rude, it would haunt him if he let himself act in such a way to Wriothesley. And to accept… well, humans like to help, don’t they? They are selfless that way, always offering a piece of themselves if it holds even a hint of a promise to help another. Their time, their energy, it doesn’t matter to them what’s given so long as it’s useful, even if just in a small way. It’s a treasure, a gift, to be offered such a thing as a human’s help.

And coming from Wriothesley? How could he possibly reject such an offer? Even if there’s a part of himself yelling at him, telling him it’d be foolish, he can’t help but want. Oh, he wants so deeply to accept, to be small, to be cared for and loved despite how utterly wretched he feels. Despite how pathetic it’d make him. Despite how hopeless an endeavour it’d be.

“If you truly want to,” he whispers, hardly able to make himself heard. But Wriothesley still hears him, he always does.

“Do you want me to?” Yes. Yes, desperately so. But to say that out loud? To speak his own weakness into the world, no longer hiding it in the chaos that is his mind? What an unbearable thing. He opens his mouth, but he can’t get himself to even breathe those words into existence. Can’t even meet Wriothesley’s gaze, which he knows, he knows, will be far too gentle to bear. And is that not in and of itself weakness, to be unable to bare the most vulnerable parts of himself to his beloved? And yet is it not also weak for him to be in such a state in the first place?

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. But there was never any winning for him, was there? How could there be, when his very existence was designed so that he could cater to others? This chaos, this cacophony that he finds himself in, it is all so that he can be aware of the state of the humans he now finds himself ruling, so he can understand even their deepest complexities just enough to know how to help them move forward. So he can be a competent sovereign of the nation of Hydro, a compassionate god of life for the humans he’s lived amongst for centuries. So he can give and give and give, always giving for the eternity that is his life because he’s not sure what he’d be if he didn’t.

“I don’t know…” And oh, he hates how his voice shakes, trembling with a pain and exhaustion too well known. Every muscle is tense, trying to hold himself together as bits and pieces start to break and fall. But muscle can’t bind a broken soul. “I don’t know… I’m sorry… I don’t know…”

“Neuvillette, my love,” Wriothesley cuts in, taking his face gently in his hands and tilting his head so their eyes meet. “It’s alright. I won’t be upset if you say no. I want you to be comfortable, even if that means you want me to back off.” Those blue eyes practically shimmer in the low light, soft and tender with a love and understanding that’s entirely undeserved.

“Your kindness is unmatched, but I’m afraid that’s not quite the dilemma I’m facing.” Not at all. No, the problem lies with himself, with his own shortcomings and weaknesses. His own faults that create unseen fractures throughout his entire soul, hidden by dust and debris that has accumulated through the centuries. But they’re still there, they still marr his being in ways that can never be fixed or undone.

He pulls away from Wriothesley, his head falling back into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck and hiding, how cowardly, from the aches in his soul. Wriothesley remains silent; he says nothing, not even giving a hum of acknowledgement. But when those hands shift to his waist, holding him close, the action says more than words ever could. And that’s enough, just enough, to get him to choose.

“I… do want your help,” he says, his voice hardly even a breath against Wriothesley’s throat. It cracks and shakes until it crumbles under the weight of the admission, under the weight of failure and defeat and, somewhere in the rubble of it all, a pleading hope. A desire that makes him recoil at its selfishness yet desperately cling tighter to Wriothesley. His throat burns with held back sobs, but the tears flow freely down his cheeks into the cloth of Wriothesley’s shirt. What a selfish, pathetic, weak picture he paints. How low he’s fallen, how despicable he is… but if he must become such a miserable creature through his failure, please don’t let his cries fall on deaf ears. If he must cave so easily to his own weakness, please let this wretchedness be worth it. “I just don’t know how you could. I’m sorry…”

“Please don’t cry, love. There’s nothing to apologise for.” Wriothesley, in Neuvillette’s opinion, is far too gentle with him when he takes his face in his hands again and swipes a thumb across his cheek, brushing away the tears. More simply take their place, but even through their blur, he can see the kindness in Wriothesley’s eyes. The care, the love, all the things he’s utterly undeserving of, and yet…

And yet, Wriothesley still holds him. He keeps him close, he stays gentle and soft, he stays kind, and that brings a whole new wave of silent tears, completely obscuring his vision. But this time, he leans into that gentle touch, into the warm hand on his cheek. He may be a wretched, selfish beast, but he is loved so tenderly that he can’t do anything but accept that love.

Silence stretches between them. Not a true silence, not to Neuvillette, but the air between them is undisturbed by words, only the occasional shaky breath as Neuvillette wills the tears to stop. And Wriothesley, oh his dear Wriothesley, he simply waits for Neuvillette to pull himself together, offering featherlight caresses and wiping away the tears with his sleeve, all with the most tender expression Neuvillette has ever seen.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice still shaky and small but not nearly as wrecked as before.

“Of course, my love.” Oh, how sweet those words are, like sugar water left out for the finches. Gentle like the hands cradling his face. Soft like the nest of pillows and sheets that make up his bed. And those eyes, the slight crinkle of adoration at the corners, the shine they hold… oh what love is found in their depths.

“I do not have an idea for what you can do to help, but, if it’s not too much to ask, do you?”

“Maybe. But I’ll have to ask a question first, to see if it’ll even work.”

“Go on.”

“What happens when you focus on a certain emotion or memory?” A certain emotion or memory? His own, or…

“Whose are you thinking?” A small shrug and a glance to the side is the only response he gets. It’s the only one he needs to make Wriothesley’s plan clear as crystal to him. He sits up and puts his hands on Wriothesley’s chest, pushing him away just enough that he can level a stern look at him. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“Wriothesley, I’m not going to delve into your emotions. I can feel everything, but that doesn’t mean I won’t respect the privacy of others. It… it’s like a large gathering of people, I can hear all of the conversations, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to eavesdrop on what a person is saying. That’s– it’s such a horrible breach of privacy and respect, I can’t do that.”

“I’m giving you my full permission to do so with me.” That earns a withering glare from Neuvillette, but Wriothesley continues on. “If you want. It’s just an offer, you don’t have to take it, but you won’t be invading my privacy if you do. I promise.” A promise like this is weighty. It holds a trust Neuvillette isn’t even sure he deserves. And yet, it’s given to him so readily, so whole-heartedly. And to focus on the memories of a loved one? To find solace in such a warmth he’s willing to share?

“I am… tempted,” he admits, the words heavy on his tongue but slowly lifting a weight from his chest. His gaze falls to the sheets as he leans forwards, back into Wriothesley’s arms.

“I don’t mind if you take a while to decide. We can just sit like this. If it helps.”

“It… doesn’t hurt,” he mumbles, hiding his face in Wriothesley’s neck.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Neuvillette can only hum in response, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of his neck. Wriothesley’s fingers tangle in his hair once again, brushing through mussed curls of white and blue as he places a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah, we can stay just like this. For as long as you need.”

He truly doesn’t deserve such kindness, such tenderness, such care. But being given it, he can’t deny it either. It fills him with a warmth that comforts him, soothes him in a way nothing else can ever really manage. He really could stay like this forever, in Wriothesley’s arms, loved despite being such a needy, selfish creature. What a sweet thing it is, to be loved so deeply, so profoundly.

And that offer… what a selfless thought. A promise of peace, or at least an attempt for it. It’s beyond kind, beyond loving. To take advantage of such an open, tender gift seems cruel, but to discard it altogether is moreso. And oh, how he craves what Wriothesley is offering…

“May I try?” he asks, softly, gently. His voice is hardly a whisper against his skin, but Wriothesley hears it all the same.

“Go ahead, love.” He takes a shaky breath, bracing himself before delving into the raging sea in his mind. It’s so unbearably loud, every little sound both within and without enough to paralyse him, but he forces himself to bear it, if just for these next few moments. He searches through the chaos, battered around by it like a poor otter pup caught in a jetstream, until, in a tiny drop so miniscule it really shouldn’t count, he finds it. Just a hint, but more than enough to open up the doors to Wriothesley’s emotions.

It still feels… wrong. He hesitates, peering into the present moment of Wriothesley’s state of being. He very well could look further, look into the man’s past, but that is a line he refuses to cross, even if he was expressly allowed to. So he stays here, just on the edge of Wriothesley’s emotions, waiting for… what, exactly? Nothing can push him forward or back, only his own choice. But does he dare do this? Should he really purposefully dive into someone else’s emotions? He’s being told he can, but…

He can ask for forgiveness after, apologise profusely and find some gifts to give him. He’s almost certain Wriothesley won’t accept any of it and will say he doesn’t need to do all of that, but for Wriothesley to even offer this to him… to open himself up in the most raw and vulnerable way possible just because Neuvillette is feeling absolutely wrecked… if he won’t accept apologies, he’ll have to accept gifts. If not gifts, then something, because such a display of trust should not be ignored. Cannot be ignored. It is gentle and precious and tender, something to be cradled in the palms of his hands and cherished with his entire being. It is love, pure and sweet and oh so soft. Yes, he will make sure to give back such care in full and then some.

With that, he dives in.

It’s quiet. Not silent, no, never silent, but it’s quiet. Oh so quiet. The chaos of the waters is sealed behind him, shut away behind the barrier that is Wriothesley’s soul. They still crash together like waves out at sea, but there is… a distance, now. As if he is listening to the ocean from farther inland rather than caught in the turmoil itself. There are no distinct voices, no strong emotions, simply… peace and quiet.

Wriothesley’s emotions are blissfully mellow, a cool lake in summer reflecting the sky above. There is still a murmur, a whisper from Wriothesley’s soul as some memories flow by, but it’s all calm and mild. A wisp of a memory, a recent one, floats by and takes shape; he smiles softly as he recognises it, watching as both his and Wriothesley’s faded figures happily chat in the shade of a Bulle fruit tree. Their voices are soft, the words indistinguishable, but the gentle lilt of their conversation soothes him like the rocking of the waves. It paints a scene so serene he can’t help but feel at ease.

He sighs, for once not with weight and burden, but with contentment. He relaxes fully into Wriothesley’s embrace, a smile ghosting his lips as he settles against him. If a tear or two slip down his face, Wriothesley doesn’t comment, merely holding him close as he drifts into a wonderful, quiet dream.