Work Text:
The sound of raindrops hitting nylon slots itself into the rush of rainwater, draping itself over Neuvillette. He shakes himself from his reverie, finding that he is no longer under the cool blanket of the downpour, but rather covered by the shade of an umbrella.
Wriothesley says nothing as he holds the umbrella over his head. He cocks his head, expression curious in that strangely childlike way that only Wriothesley was capable of— one that asked an open question, but never hoped for an answer.
“Thank you,” Neuvillette says— a little belatedly as he remembers his surroundings. This was one of the small human norms that he always struggled to get used to— was it truly that strange to stand out in the rain like this?
He glances again at Wriothesley and is reminded of the reason why he'd be here in the first place.
“Why don't we head inside,” Wriothesley beats him to it, jerking his head towards the grand doors of the Palais Mermonia. Quietly, Neuvillette nods, forgetting the shade of the umbrella as he moves to get indoors.
—
Official matters go as smoothly as ever. Neuvillette and Wriothesley are, if anything, scarily efficient. But this time, as their discussion comes to its conclusion, Wriothesley finds himself with concerns yet unaddressed for the first time in their collaboration.
“That should be it for the recent wave of inmates. I apologise once again for sending so many your way in one go. I did not expect Marcel’s power to have been so… so influential,” Neuvillette sighs. “Is there anything else I missed?”
Dazedly, Wriothesley shakes his head— a force of habit more than anything— trained by Neuvillette’s unerring competency.
“Well then, you're free to return. You know how to contact me if need be.”
Wriothesley doesn't leave. Instead, he seems to finally come back to himself, the uncertainty ever more pronounced.
Neuvillette looks up, confused, cocking his head gently to the side in a curious invitation.
“I— uh…” Wriothesley fumbles, his hands searching for something to busy themselves with. “…Here,” he settles on, pulling a spare handkerchief from his pockets. “Don't catch a cold.”
Neuvillette's eyes widen, before softening with a fond appreciation. “Thank you,” he says quietly, tucking the handkerchief away instead of using it.
“Don't push yourself too hard,” Wriothesley tries instead. “This latest trial must have worn you out… you look exhausted.”
"Ah," Neuvillette realises, and the way his expression relaxes almost looks a little amused. It doesn't last long however, the melancholy returning with his next words.
"It's not a big matter," Neuvillette dismisses with a soft sigh, "I'm simply a little troubled by how it's turned out."
Wriothesley watches a little helplessly as Neuvillette's mood drops, heavier and heavier as if it were being led by the growing downpour outside. And before he knew it, he was opening his mouth.
"Well, I think you did a good job with this case," Wriothesley tries, words fumbling out of his mouth. "It may not be completely resolved, but the people seem happy? In our eyes, there's no one else who could preside over the trials the way you do."
Neuvillette pauses. Wriothesley winces. That really wasn’t the most eloquent way to phrase a compliment. It wasn’t even one of the slightly more eloquent ways he could have phrased it.
Neuvillette is quiet for a moment, brows furrowing as he considers Wriothesley's words. Every second that passes like this makes Wriothesley increasingly want to get up and bolt out of the Palais Mermonia.
"Wriothesley," Neuvillette starts slowly, and Wriothesley is already preparing himself for the worst. "I'm… the only Chief Justice. There is no one else who can preside over the trials."
"I…" Well, that definitely was not what Wriothesley was expecting, but not what he was hoping for either. At the very least, Neuvillette didn't seem too put off, only confused.
"Forget it," Wriothesley waves, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "All I meant was that you did your best."
"Oh," Neuvillette says, and the subtle way his eyes widen— the gentle way his breath clips his voice, makes him sound a little younger and a little more open, makes Wriothesley's heart lurch.
"I see. Thank you, Wriothesley, those are very kind words." Neuvillette smiles. It was a polite smile more than anything else— mostly meant to thank Wriothesley for the compliment. But it also wasn't just a polite smile— not anymore.
Wriothesley has spent years learning to read the subtleties of Neuvillette's disposition. And in that moment, he dared to hope that this wouldn't be the last time he got to see Neuvillette smile like that.
1:
Wriothesley first met Neuvillette when he was fourteen.
He'd spent the walk from the holding centre to the courtroom staring straight down, still numb even weeks after his crime. The cool air conditioning of the opera house washed over the grime and sweat layered over his skin, settling an uncomfortable chill into his bones, spreading with every echoing step to the stand.
That is, until he spoke.
Neuvillette hadn't raised his voice, but still, it resounded throughout the hall, a stern yet oddly warm call for order.
Wriothesley looked up then, and found the Chief Justice's eyes trained at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He'd maintained the placid neutrality required by the courtroom, but something was rolling underneath it, the swirl of complex emotions swimming in his eyes before he closed them, turning his attention back to the proceedings.
Even though the trial went as Wriothesley had expected, something about the way Neuvillette had looked at him, something in the way his voice softened ever so slightly as he finished his reading of the verdict— a softness that neared wavering— made Wriothesley feel less empty as he lay for the first night in his dingy cell.
Okay, so, he's using the word “met” very loosely here, but the sentiment remains the same.
From then on, he'd found himself keeping tabs on the chief justice. Tuning in to news and rumours in the fortress about Neuvillette, taking opportunities to go up to the surface on community service for the chance to catch a glimpse of him, and— once he'd taken over the fortress— actively reaching out to Neuvillette himself.
With every interaction, he finds himself more and more magnetised by the Chief Justice. The fascination of their first encounter turned into an unwitting infatuation in his teen years, then a fervent admiration as they first began working together, before settling into a deep respect over the years of collaboration.
Yet despite all the time that's passed, Wriothesley has yet to have the chance to be fully honest with Neuvillette. So here Wriothesley was, now standing outside of Neuvillette's office… empty-handed.
Okay, so maybe he chickened out a little by opting to leave the flowers in Neuvillette’s office instead of delivering them personally, but well…
Well— he has limits, okay? This is all happening a little too fast and he didn't really give himself enough time to prepare.
Either way, wasn't it enough that his sentiments got through to Neuvillette in the end?
“Your Grace?” Sedene opens the door. “What are you doing? You've been standing there for ages.” Oh. Sedene had opened the door.
“Ah,” Wriothesley comes back to himself, “don’t mind me, just got lost in thought for a moment there.” He strides past her with a little nod, finding Neuvillette before his desk, looking at the flowers he had left on it.
Wriothesley's heart jumps, a spike of anxiety suddenly clogging his throat and tensing his muscles. “Neuvillette,” he manages, and thankfully, the man in question turns to respond quickly enough to save him from speaking any more.
“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette greets, and it's subtle, but Wriothesley can hear the gentle smile in his voice. “Were these flowers from you?”
Wriothesley hums, not trusting himself with too many words. “How do you like them?”
Neuvillette traces a graceful finger over the velvet petal of a rainbow rose, the subtle smile from before growing as he admires the bouquet. “They're wonderful, Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley's heart clenches, the sight of Neuvillette's smile stirring something in his chest that made him feel so much more fragile, a hope that Neuvillette had gotten his message, a hope that Neuvillette feels the same way, a hope that he tentatively lets free—
"— they will be a lovely addition to the office, just in time for the diplomatic visit."
What.
"Hm?" Neuvillette cocks his head.
"I— uh, I mean," balls, he said that out loud. "I meant—" Wriothesley clears his throat, "what— else could it be for! Other— other than to decorate your office for our guests!"
Neuvillette nods, a small smile of acknowledgement on his face. "Indeed, I'm most satisfied with the preparations this time round, and am very grateful for your help and initiative.”
Wriothesley watches dazedly as Neuvillette pots the flowers, arranging them tastefully on his desk to frame the office supplies placed basically permanently in the centre.
…At least… it looked pretty?
2:
Okay, so flowers didn't work. So what? It was a classic method, not a foolproof plan. And Wriothesley wasn't willing to give up on the classics just yet.
The problem with the flowers was that they were too abstract, too easy to misinterpret. But if he laid out his intentions in plain terms, there'd be no room for argument.
So here Wriothesley was, powering through the penning of… of a love letter.
Neuvillette, he starts, and promptly stops, not quite sure how to move on past that.
I've been watching—
I've been observing—
I've had my eye on you—
Okay no, these all sound incredibly creepy. Maybe he should start with something simpler, something more mundane to lead into the emotional stuff.
Neuvillette, has time and tide been treating you well?
Okay good, good, doing alright so far— now subtly lead into the emotion—
I've yearned for you for—
No, okay, that's— that escalated a little too quickly. Hastily, he scratches off the spilled sentiment, the sudden confession alarming even himself.
I, Wriothesley writes, but he can't seem to move the tip of his pen beyond that one simple stroke. The ink collects at the base of the line, bleeding through the thin parchment and softening its pulp, until a slight tremour of his fingers breaks the sharp pen tip through the damp paper.
I… Wriothesley thinks, his own internal monologue a little at a loss. He comes back to himself to lift his pen. I find myself thinking about you lately, his voice admits, the candour of a moment where his restraint comes loose. Wriothesley sets out a new piece of parchment.
I hope that is welcome.
In all the years I've known you, the number of times I've seen you smile from your heart I can count on one hand. But as of late, the Chief Justice seems to have relaxed a little. I see him outside the Palais Mermonia some days, watching the sky as the rain clears, and he seems to find peace as he tilts his head upwards— so different from the serious gaze he sweeps over the court during trials.
It makes me wonder— what goes on in your mind? What is it that fuels the Chief Justice? When he stands at the Judge’s platform, what is it that lets him keep that same calm severity on his face? And what is it that he’s feeling as he stands unmoving outside the Opera after the trials, soaking in the rain?
It doesn't take a genius to guess, but that’s not important. What’s important is that now, things are changing. It's nice— to see you like this— and though I know it is selfish, I wish to be able to see more of this version of the Chief Justice. I wish to know if he would permit me to do so.
…Unsigned.
Neuvillette flips the piece of parchment over again. It seems there really was no signature.
He sighs. The letter had… made him feel strangely seen, and though he didn't know the identity of the sender— what their relationship to him was, how long they've been observing him, what exactly they wanted from him— he could feel the beating sincerity of their words, the pulse of their sentiments resoundingly clear.
It was a shame then, that he didn't know who he was meant to respond to. He had a few ideas, of course, but none all too clear enough to really act upon. All he could do now was guess.
A few days later, Wriothesley receives a letter from Sedene, stamped with Neuvillette's— not the Chief Justice's— seal. Instantly, he feels the blood drain from his fingers and rush to the peak of his cheekbones, burning at the tips of his ears. He fumbles with the letter, all his coordination going towards squeezing out a tempered and collected thanks to Sedene, fingers barely staying stable for long enough for him to peel off the wax sealing the envelope.
Wriothesley,
I hope you've been well. I'm terribly sorry that another of my admirers in the Fortress has tampered with your mail yet again. It is difficult to personally help take concrete measures to prevent this, and though I hold no disdain for and in fact rather feel quite touched and moved by their genuine and heartfelt sentiments, I am still awfully guilty as not just your collaborator, but your friend, that they have caused you trouble. I extend you my sincerest apologies.
Yours,
Neuvillette.
…Wriothesley sighs, he knew he had forgotten something when he sealed that envelope.
3:
Wriothesley is so ready to give up on the classics. The flowers were a flop, and at this point, it'd be way too embarrassing to write another love letter.
Maybe he was coming at this from the wrong angle. Maybe something as blatant as flowers and romantic letters were, ironically, not as clear. No, if he wanted to speak to Neuvillette, he’d have to do it in a way specific to him.
“…You want… more? Paperwork?” Poor Sedene is once again, unknowingly, mediating their strange mating rituals. “But the last batch I brought you—”
“Is already completed,” Wriothesley finishes her sentence for her, “aren’t there a lot of trials arranged for the upcoming few weeks? The Chief Justice has got to find some time to get out a little more, there’s no way that’d be possible if he held onto all these documents at the same time.”
Sedene squints at him, but sighs and agrees nonetheless. Wriothesley considers himself lucky that Sigewinne had wordlessly handed him a bottle of concealer.
Once Sedene is safely out of view, Wriothesley slumps bonelessly over his desk.
Competence is hot, he reminds himself, competence is so fucking hot. Especially for someone like Neuvillette? Competence is loin-inflamingly hot. Hot enough to make up for the horrible bags under his eyes and the unkempt stubble steadily growing in— the loose tie was already hot so he doesn’t have to account for that.
He lets himself melt a little while Sedene makes the round trip. Even for someone as efficient as her, it’d take her a while to travel back and forth, especially with the workload he’d—
“Here.”
Wriothesley jerks upright. When did Sedene get back?
“That was fast—” Wriothesley spots the singular envelope on his desk, “that’s all?”
“The Monsieur asked me to deliver this instead,” Sedene explains. She makes to move off, only to hesitate, turning back to add: “please get some sleep, Your Grace.”
Wriothesley watches as she scurries away, turning his attention back to the letter on his desk once she leaves his line of sight.
Wriothesley,
I wanted to thank you for your concern for my workload. However, while I greatly appreciate your thought, there is no need to worry for me, and much less any need to try lightening my workload. I would feel awful if you overworked yourself for me— as with all things in life, one has to maintain a healthy balance, and even the Duke is no exception.
I have enclosed a few sticks of dried Marcotte to aid in your sleep, please do rest more in these coming few days.
Yours,
Neuvillette
Wriothesley feels like he’d just been punched in the gut and kissed tenderly on the forehead at the same time. Neuvillette going specifically out of his way to make sure he was rested and healthy made his chest stir with warmth like alcohol, but to hear “don’t overwork yourself” from the poster child for overwork himself…
And in the end, wasn’t this yet another failure?
Wriothesley twirls the stick of dried Marcotte between his fingers. True to Neuvillette’s words, he started feeling the syrupy thickness of sleep seeping into the edges of his consciousness. He sighs, it seems he really was due for a nap after all.
4:
Maybe he shouldn't be planning all of this out so meticulously, maybe that's what was hamstringing his progress. A little spontaneity is good for the soul! Especially for someone like Neuvillette, who's so focused on the subtleties and nuances of things, perhaps something more… natural, would speak more resoundingly to him.
…At least… that’s what Wriothesley thought 14 hours ago, when he was preparing for this expedition and anticipating all the opportunities he’d have to get close to Neuvillette on their three-day two-night… investigation operation.
Honestly, what was he thinking? Not only does he not have the chance to sneak in thoughtful, tastefully subtle gestures of fondness and affection, he can barely keep up with Neuvillette enough to even think about grabbing his hand!
Neuvillette wasted no time dawdling the moment they arrived, striding from site to site to examine the scene, swiftly picking up anything potentially helpful and leaving without preamble immediately after, the thump of his cane seemingly mocking Wriothesley as he found himself playing catch-up time and time again.
“Monsieur—” Wriothesley tries to hide his laboured breathing. “Slow down… please… we have two more days to comb the crime scene.”
“Wriothesley, the crime scene spans a good portion of the Elynas region, we’ve—”
“Already covered more than half of it.”
“…Oh.”
“It’s barely past noon,” Wriothesley continues, “and about time for a lunch break.”
“Ah…” Neuvillette says, seemingly coming back to his senses. “I apologise, I hadn’t realised how engrossed I had gotten.”
He makes to step down from the small platform of rocks he'd been perched on while examining a clue. But it seems that upon snapping out of his reverie, the fatigue of an entire morning of non-stop investigation had begun to catch up with him. Neuvillette’s cane misses the jut of stone below him, slipping out in front as his knees buckled under him.
He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact, only to realise it never came. Instead, he felt himself supported by a strong arm around his waist, and later, a firm grip around his wrist.
Wriothesley had, on sheer instinct, moved to catch him, surprising even himself. Something held the both of them in that position for a while, frozen within the moment. Neuvillette's wide-eyed gaze trained on an equally stunned Wriothesley, a moment of mutual vulnerability in which neither wanted to look away.
“…Be careful,” Wriothesley hears himself say— though, he's not quite sure it’s his own voice in his ears. He's never heard himself sound this soft.
Neuvillette lets out the breath he'd been holding— whether it had hitched when he fell or when he was caught he can't remember— and slowly nods his head.
The acknowledgement, however subtle, tugs Wriothesley back to his senses. Something about Neuvillette's response reminds him that this is real, taking him out of the trance that they had both seemingly fallen into.
Now, Wriothesley feels every point of contact like a searing iron on his skin. The small of Neuvillette's back burns into his palm, the warmth radiating down his forearm; Neuvillette’s knee singes the inside of his shin, their legs pressed near from when Wriothesley had lunged forward to make the catch; and even though it was his hand wrapped around Neuvillette's wrist, it felt like it was he who was being enveloped in the boiling heat.
It takes every ounce of his will to pull them back upright before letting go, retracting his hands slowly and measuredly— primed for the unexpected— when they had been painfully scalded just the moment before.
“…Thank you,” Neuvillette says, and for a moment, that gratitude tinged with a tentative fondness hooks onto Wriothesley’s heart.
…Before Neuvillette proceeds to promptly dust himself off and continue on their trek, seemingly having forgotten his previous agreement to a lunch break.
5:
Wriothesley has had it. This time, he was just going to be direct— subtlety is only tasteful when the other person catches on, and at this rate, Fontaine would probably flood before Neuvillette caught on.
And… it seems like he might finally succeed? He'd invited Neuvillette on a date (what’s more direct than a date, right?), and while Neuvillette had looked taken aback at first, he considered it for a moment, before smiling and nodding, the agreement escaping his lips sounding almost shy.
On top of that, as Wriothesley stood here, nervous in his freshly pressed vest and brand new set of trousers, going for casual but put together, he spots Neuvillette already at their agreed upon date spot. Neuvillette combs back a lock of loose hair, his hand running down the surface of the picnic mat draped over his arm as he brings it back down from the side of his face. He'd had a similar idea to Wriothesley it seems, clothed in a neat dress shirt, the cut loose enough to hang tastefully from his shoulders, but not so oversized that it swallowed his lean form. The flowy top was cut by the tuck of his waistcoat, highlighting the lovely curve of his waist, tapering nicely into a pair of form-fitting trousers.
Neuvillette looked beautiful.
As if he'd heard Wriothesley's silent praise, Neuvillette turns at that moment, spotting him from the distance. His cool expression breaks into a warm smile, reaching a hand out to wave him over.
“Wriothesley,” he greets, with a small nod of his head and a smile that seemed nearly bashful. “You look very clean today.”
“Right back at ‘cha,” Wriothesley says, spending all his willpower to keep his voice from trembling. “Let me help you with that.”
Wriothesley sets the basket on the ground, taking the other end of the blanket to help Neuvillette lay it out. Neuvillette packs quite a few surprises he finds, the picnic mat boasting an adorable print of blubberbeasts on its face.
Neuvillette fussed with the edges of the mat as Wriothesley laid out their lunch, an array of fresh fruit, sandwiches, salads, and pastries (courtesy of Navia), along with a big jug of spring water. He looks at their spread, then sees Neuvillette moving to seat himself on the mat, and dares to let his heart swell with excitement.
Neuvillette adjusts his hair yet again, gently sweeping it back as he wipes the non-existent dust from his lap, the perfect image of grace. “Well, now that we have settled,” he turns to Wriothesley, “what matters were you hoping to discuss?”
“...What?” Neuvillette has such a way with words.
He cocks his head. “Business matters, no? I hear that discussing business over meals is a practice growing in popularity in modern Fontaine,” he explains, “though… I was under the impression it implied meals at a restaurant…”
Business matters…… Wriothesley is once again defeated… by business matters…
“For once, I find this eccentric social ritual to be rather reasonable,” Neuvillette continues, not at all picking up on Wriothesley's despair. “Discussing important matters on an empty stomach is never a good idea, so enjoying a meal while doing so remedies that perfectly. At the same time, sharing a meal with one's collaborator helps to build trust and a rapport, a fine methodology to solve all these social conundrums at once.” Neuvillette concludes, a small, satisfied smile lighting his face.
Like this, the honourable, grand, Iudex of Fontaine seemed more like a content child, excited to have finally understood something.
Wriothesley kills the correction on the tip of his tongue. So what if he's been bested by business matters yet again? There's never a lack of official work to be done anyways, before long, he'd have another chance to make his heart clear.
It didn't matter, the sight before him is not one he's willing to trade.
+1:
It's another rainy day in Fontaine. The weather on the surface is not apparent in the Fortress, but something about the melancholy in the air lets it permeate the miles of ocean and layers of rust-coated metal to linger in the underworld.
It has invited Wriothesley to do quite a lot of rumination. It's not like he's giving up per se, but Wriothesley thinks that maybe, there's no need to push for something to happen.
Maybe he didn't need a moment where everything changed, maybe he didn't need that big switch where suddenly, they became something different. What they have now is plenty satisfying, and with the way they've developed in their years of collaboration, he's willing to wait for things to grow naturally.
This time, he finds himself once again outside the Palais Mermonia. Once again by Neuvillette's request, and greeted— once again— by a familiar sight.
Neuvillette stands there, soaking in the rain, his hand outstretched catching the falling droplets, but seemingly without really meaning or wanting to. It hangs stagnant in the air, like he'd forgotten he'd reached out in the first place, now only happening to collect rainwater.
He's staring up at the sky yet again, normally sharp eyes drooping as if imploring the heavens for an answer, begging for resolution from troubles he cannot even name.
Even outside of the courtroom, Neuvillette stood at an intimidating height, easily towering over most, with Wriothesley barely managing to even their heights in his stocky boots. And even outside of his judicial robes, Neuvillette was sturdy, the steady breadth of his shoulders a commanding and calming silhouette.
But now… now, Neuvillette looked… small.
Something compels Wriothesley to move before he can second guess himself. His mind catches up belatedly, worry spiking in his chest, not wanting to mess things up. But this time, however, he finds that he doesn't reach out to hold his umbrella over Neuvillette. Instead, he closes the open umbrella in his hand and walks to his side, gently draping his coat over Neuvillette's shoulders instead.
Neuvillette looks over at the sudden company, his mouth opening as if making to say something, but nothing comes out. Wriothesley leans himself on the railings, looking up at the rain before meeting Neuvillette's subtly startled gaze.
“Fontaine has never been in need of more water, but all the same, the rain brings an absolution that is not easy to replicate,” Wriothesley starts, his mouth moving with a mind of its own already. “Don’t you think?”
“…Indeed,” Neuvillette seems to recover a little, returning to himself as he gladly takes the out Wriothesley offers.
“As a kid, I'd hear all my siblings chant that classic phrase: ‘Hydro dragon, Hydro dragon, don't cry’, but I've always thought there was nothing so bad about crying. At least, it's better than always holding it in.”
Wriothesley pauses, glancing to his side. Neuvillette isn't looking at him anymore, but the gentle furrow of his brows and the perk of his ears make it clear where his mind is. There is a rare slouch pressing on Neuvillette's shoulders, his hands having come up to the railings to support the slight lean forward. It was just a few small gestures, but it made the Neuvillette before him jarringly different from the placidly calm Chief Justice in the Opera Epiclese. Wriothesley lets the words on the tip of his tongue stew a little longer.
“…So…” Wriothesley starts, hands a little tighter on the restraint that seems to keep running loose today. “If the rain means release for the Hydro dragon, then… I hope it’s not in a hurry to end.”
Wriothesley's words drift down onto the puddles that had been collecting between them, floating atop the water like a freshly fallen leaf. It seems… this rain had already been falling for a while.
Neuvillette is silent for a long while, subtle fidgeting and soft intakes of breath the only sign of his rumination. Until he seems to still, a calm settling slowly over him, not like the heavy clouds of an overcast day, but like the morning dew gently forming on the petals of a rainbow rose.
Quietly, the rain recedes, seemingly leaving with the troubled energy that had clouded Neuvillette before. It is now that it seems Neuvillette was finally able to speak.
“Thank you… for staying with me,” he says as the rain comes to a stop. Neuvillette turns, then, to properly face Wriothesley, only to be swiftly snapped out of whatever remaining melancholy by the sight before him.
“I uh… forgot my umbrella?” Wriothesley tries. Neuvillette's gaze darts to the discarded umbrella behind him, his shock sublimating into doubt and worry.
“I—”
“I’ll be fine! I'll be fine— really, a hot shower and some freshly brewed tea and I'll be good. Don't worry about it, really.”
“But you're drenched!” Neuvillette says, making to remove the coat from his shoulders only to think better of it after finding that it, too, was drenched. “Oh my— my deepest apologies, I forgot—”
“Really Monsieur,” Wriothesley coaxes, placing a hand under Neuvillette's forearm. The touch seems to ground him, the persisting warmth of Wriothesley's palm holding him steady.
“I'll be fine.”
That seems to do the trick, Neuvillette's worry easing off his face. Wriothesley chuckles as he watches Neuvillette relax, his laughter clearing the humidity in the air between them. Neuvillette traces the curve of Wriothesley's lips with his eyes, the corners of his own lips lifting in a gentle huff, swept up in the charismatic lead of Wriothesley's voice.
Even soaked from head to toe in rainwater like this, Wriothesley emanated a calming warmth. The hand still gently cradling Neuvillette's arm a stark but not scalding reminder of his presence, one that Neuvillette seems to have overlooked until now.
Of course, Wriothesley has always been remarkable, but they've worked together for so long that even Neuvillette had slipped into routine. Yet now, Neuvillette looks at the man in front of him and feels something click gently into place.
Wriothesley waits as Neuvillette gathers himself, but as a precaution for his own sake, he'd already started letting his levitating heart down, slowly taking the hand that had been holding Neuvillette's arm up with it.
Neuvillette startles ever so slightly at the disturbance, and finally, as he looks at the ghost of a far too willing resignation drift past Wriothesley's face, he feels the push he'd been unknowingly waiting on.
“Come,” Neuvillette says, stopping Wriothesley's withdrawal and taking his hand, the tentative stress coming belatedly to the joints of his fingers once the rush of impulse washes away. “I’ve kept you waiting for far too long.”
Wriothesley stills as he processes the touch, taking in the restrained yet hopeful gaze Neuvillette fixes him with, the grip of his hand not forceful, but firm.
Wriothesley lets go of the breath he had been holding onto this whole time, the relief coming out as a huff of breathy laughter.
“Of course,” he says, taking Neuvillette's hand properly in his, the corners of his lips tugging insistently up, “let’s go.”