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There is little that can compared to the cool feel of rain against his face.
Being the Chief Justice brings with it insurmountable stress, further compounded by other secrets and hidden truths; by the back-seat dealings he must handle, and the energy exerted by having to keep Focalors on a tight leash.
She has her purpose and she plays her part well, but she’s a wild, cantankerous thing at times, and Neuvillette finds reigning her back almost more trouble than it’s worth. But, but— it’s for the better. Rumors of old Hydro Sovereigns, he can deal with, but for others to know he’s alive, that Focalors is merely his right hand…
Neuvillette rubs his eyes, sighing at the thought. It is bad enough that Emperor Morax knows. There was little to be done that could hide it, but Neuvillette had hoped they’d never have to meet in person for precisely this reason. One look, one sniff, had Morax’s gaze narrowed, and he’d cornered Neuvillette the first chance he found.
Exhausting. Neuvillette’s bones ache, but the rain feels good against them, healing that soreness.
“There you are.”
Ah. Neuvillette can’t help the way that his lips pull into a smile. He turns to find Wriothesley, an umbrella in his hand, dressed down for the night. Off-duty, as Sigewinne likes to tease. She’s prone to stealing his armor away to ensure a semblance of rest, even if Wriothesley is truly never off call.
“Rain,” says Wriothesley then, holding his palm out to catch a handful. “Are you that stressed?”
“No.” It’s true enough, but then Neuvillette sighs because he knows that look on Wriothesley’s face. “Not entirely. Not to the point that you should worry. I just… needed a moment alone, to become one with the water. Going back to my roots helps me focus.”
“So the meeting with Morax wasn’t an utter nightmare? I was going to chase you down, but his little guard dog wouldn’t let me.”
Ah. Yes. The boy. Neuvillette gives Wriothesley a look of amusement but chooses to not compare the two of them aloud. “Morax,” he says instead, turning his face towards the sky to feel the rain against his brow, “has come forth to be a surprising ally.”
“Oh?” Wriothesley tilts his head in interest. “An archon?”
“Strange, I know, but there is something to be said about being… kin. In a way.” Neuvillette cringes slightly, but swallows the thought down. It is not entirely untrue.
“And so you think he’ll keep this secret?”
Neuvillette cannot begin to fathom what Morax intends. Until recently, they’ve only known each other through written correspondence, sparse letters that were punctual and professional. “I think… that if this knowledge were able to provide him an advantage at this moment, he would have played his hand.” He’s old—but Morax is older, and he’s played the game of politics since before Teyvat existed.
“That look.” Wriothesley’s voice cuts into his thoughts, not unkindly. “What are you thinking about?”
“I… he… we shared a good conversation over tea. Honestly. It was nice to… have a correspondence that wasn’t politically charged, despite the topic at hand. He was mostly curious and then commended me on my method of staying safe.” Neuvillette laughs bitterly. “That isn’t to say it wasn’t tense. That is to be natural, no? By definition, Morax is a usurper, even if he means well, and we dragons are woefully territorial. But he seemed to be regretful of his position. I think that… I may have misjudged his character.”
And then, quieter, he continues with, “He knew my predecessor. I do not smell like him, but Morax recognized my power nonetheless. I…” The rain turns cold and Wriothesley hisses, pulling his hand back underneath the umbrella, causing Neuvillette to start. “Apologies—”
“You’re allowed to mourn, Neuvillette.”
Neuvillette blinks. He does not mourn, and likely won’t—at least until Wriothesley’s death. Still. Perhaps there is something there, a sadness clinging to him that he doesn’t quite know how to express. Feelings. Odd things. Neuvillette is still figuring them out, and the eons he’s lived has done little to help.
Morax, though, seemed… strangely in tune. Practiced. There was no acting on his part. His genial disposition was genuine, and Neuvillette liked it, enough so to give him the benefit of the doubt. And then there is his little knight, the red-haired boy with a bite mark on his wrist—Neuvillette sighs. They clearly have enough in common.
“Morax—”
“Sheesh, that must’ve been some tea date. You won’t stop talking about the guy.”
Wriothesley is only teasing him. Neuvillette frowns all the same. “Beloved,” he says, emphasizing the word, “if you would rather share tea with him instead, I encourage it. At least I wouldn’t have to listen to him prattle on.”
“Prattle on? Does he talk a lot?”
Offensively so, as far as Neuvillette is concerned. He often finds idle conversation tiresome, but Emperor Morax, when stripped down, has—as Sigewinne likes to say—the gift of gab.
Wriothesley shoots him a grin when Neuvillette doesn’t immediately answer. “That bad, huh? Enough so to bring the rain?”
“Of course, not.” A pause. “I am just tired, is all, which is what I told you. Wriothesley, stop worrying.”
Neuvillette doesn’t mean for his tone to be sharp, and though it doesn’t bite, Wriothesley still rears away, his jaw tensing. “Wait, before you say anything,” says Wriothesley when Neuvillette turns to him, “I’m not—look, I know you’re worried. I’m worried too. It’s my job to protect you. I just wanted to know your thoughts about Morax.”
“I cannot answer definitively,” murmurs Neuvillette, and it’s nearly lost in the rain. “It is possible that he may keep this information until he can use it to his advantage.”
Wriothesley steps closer. “But?”
“But… I don’t think that he would. Despite being a usurper, he seems to be of solid character. And, he is kin—”
“Kinda, sorta.”
Neuvillette chuckles. “Kind of, sort of. It is nice, though. I am not… entirely alone.”
“I know your ire towards the Archons—” Neuvillette’s lip curls at Wriothesley’s words. “—but you trust Focalors. And even if she’s a puppet, she still took Celestia’s power, even if she offered to let you rule behind her back.”
It’s complicated. Messy. The Fontainian Empire was supposed to have died with Neuvillette’s parents during the Archon War, and yet, here they are.
“I do not—”
“You do.” Wriothesley is close enough now that his smell cuts through the rain, and Neuvillette can’t help but turn towards it, relishing in that black tea and armor scent. It clings to him, even now, when in regular clothes and freshly bathed. “I know it pains you to admit it, but in that light—”
“Wriothesley.”
“—maybe it’s okay to extend the olive branch that you want to, to Morax.”
Neuvillette does not immediately respond. His knee-jerk is that, no, he doesn’t want to extend friendship. There is no space for such a thing in politics, and even those who claim to be friends are anything but. Those closest are the most common enemies, and Neuvillette refuses to lie on his back, belly up.
But… Morax is powerful—so powerful, that even Neuvillette is wary, quaking slightly in his finely woven spats. Perhaps Wriothesley is right, and it would do Fontaine a favor to consider such an allyship.
One problem.
“I will have to tell Focalors about this.”
“Nah.” Neuvillette is pinching the bridge of his nose when he shoots Wriothesley a questioning glance. Wriothesley shrugs before continuing. “I mean… does it matter? If you and Morax are friendly? Rulers of neighboring regions often share correspondence, and it’s no secret what Morax is.”
It is not. Morax wears his draconian nature on his sleeve, his horns eternally on glittering display. Neuvillette… does not hide it either, but he is quainter, quieter. The court knows that he is inhuman at the very least, but to what extent is typically overlooked because he does not draw attention to himself. Keen eyes can likely tell, but as long as his Sovereignty remains a secret, that is enough for him.
“I… do not have many friends,” says Neuvillette finally. This is not a secret.
Wriothesley knows this better than anyone. He laughs, finally taking that last step into his space, the umbrella cutting off Neuvillette’s connection to the rain. But his mate is here now, and it’s easy to fall into that comfort instead. Neuvillette reaches out to smooth his fingers over the broad expanse of Wriothesley’s chest, pulling at his tunic.
“This is mine, I believe.”
“Yeah,” replies Wriothesley, not caring one bit that he’s stolen the clothing of his emperor. And oh, the things that does to Neuvillette’s instincts.
Neuvillette hums. “It will be nice to have a friend that is not you.”
“Oh?” Wriothesley arches an eyebrow.
“I cannot complain about you, to you,” says Neuvillette, returning the expression.
“You’ve done that for years.”
Neuvillette laughs, fully, this time. And then, he quiets, calling out, “Beloved, come closer.”
He doesn’t think that Wriothesley can actually come closer, but he manages to crowd his space even more. “You’re soaked,” he complains when Neuvillette presses himself flush against Wriothesley, claws digging into his hips. “Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry.” What a ridiculous nursery rhyme, even if Wriothesley’s dulcet tone is soothing. “Do you feel better?”
“Mhmn, yes.” Neuvillette finds himself refreshed.
“Because of the rain.”
“Because of you.” A pause. “And the rain, I suppose. Speaking of—put the umbrella aside. I wish to kiss you in it.”
There are certain things that call to Neuvillette, and claiming his mate in the rain, in his element, is one of them. Wriothesley drops the umbrella without question.
Neuvillette smiles, cupping Wriothesley’s cheeks, tilting his face towards his. He loves that they’re similar in height, that he can press close and knock their noses together, thumbs sweeping over the bone there. Wriothesley relaxes. The rain pelts them, but he’s comfortable in Neuvillette’s grasp, at the way that he pulls across his skin, feeling it.
His mate always makes him feel better, but coupled with the rain—Neuvillette purrs, all of that tension bleeding away.
“Wet,” teases Wriothesley, curling his arms around Neuvillette, tugging at his hair. “Drenched. But I love it, you know. This rain is part of you.”
Touching Wriothesley in the rain is grounding. Neuvillette drags his thumb across Wriothesley’s bottom lip and dips closer, pressing their mouths together sweetly. It is not a deep kiss, nor is it searching—at least until Wriothesley makes it so. Wriothesley laughs, coaxing Neuvillette’s mouth open.
The rain is torrential. Wriothesley blinks the water away, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Neuvillette delights in the taste of water, and his mouth. This is perfection, he thinks; his two loves, melting together. Those worries melt away, lost as the tide overcomes them.
And that’s all they do—kiss as they cling together in the downpour.
Wriothesley pulls away to catch his breath. “Is your need to claim me so great that you must drench me?”
Yes. Wriothesley should be immersed in his entire being at all times, but Neuvillette doesn’t tell him this, he just kisses Wriothesley again, his forked tongue teasing as it slides deeper into his mouth.
Neuvillette has never felt more complete.