Archive of Our Own ^beta

Across the street from the café table he’s seated at, Wriothesley watches a woman clutch at her chest. A man—clearly her beau—steps forward and descends to a knee directly in front of her, brandishing what appears to be a wedding band from an ornate red box. The revealed band glistens gold in the spring sunlight, unimpeded by what could’ve been cloudy weather. She shouts in the affirmative, embraces her lover eagerly, and is then promptly drowned out as swathes of onlookers approach to offer their congratulations.

Wriothesley frowns. He has never been fond of tradition.

It’s just… unoriginal. Scarcely entertaining. Unremarkably simpleton, most of the time, and never impactful. What’s so joyous about doing exactly what others have done in the past? Maybe he’s somewhat biased, given his tendency to break the rules, but this feels like common sense. Surely the general populace isn’t so bland as to consider this noteworthy.

His irritation gets the better of him as the cheers increase in volume.

“Please, Neuvillette,” he scoffs, gesturing his shortbread towards the couple in the distance, “when you propose, don’t bother with a ring. Spend the money on something better.”

Neuvillette’s lack of an immediate answer has Wriothesley turning his head, just to find the Iudex staring back at him with an intense, thoughtful curiosity. The wind blows his seafoam hair like a sprig of seagrass caught in an undersea current.

“What? Too mean?”

“No,” Neuvillette responds quietly. His throat bobs, swallowing something down. “You expect me… to propose?”

Wriothesley’s heart falls.

“I—“

A barista arrives with their ordered drinks, setting both down in front of them with a rattling clink. They depart quickly, seeming to note the tension in the air, far too concerned with the growing crowd celebrating the freshly engaged couple adjacent to the storefront.

Wriothesley coughs.

Marriage. Marriage? Did he just imply that he wants to be wed? To Neuvillette?

He supposes it’s only logical. If the match is right, and there are means to do so, it makes sense to pop the question and hold a wedding ceremony. There is no need to doubt when a love reaches that level.

But with an engagement and an officiation comes… settling down. Marital bliss. Peace. A complete lack of responsibility to anything besides your partner and the life you want to build with them.

So… could he…?

…no. Not possible. He’s moronic for thinking otherwise. This is all just halfhearted banter and he’s regressed to overthinking. Regardless, Wriothesley does not have time for marriage. He doesn’t lead a life that allows him to settle down. He has a prison to run and a duty to uphold, and Neuvillette… Neuvillette is a Dragon Sovereign.

“I quite like this,” he says sheepishly, swallowing down all of his thoughts with his first inhale of coffee. Black, honeyed, and hot: just how he prefers. Café Lutece never disappoints.

Neuvillette, thankfully, does not press the matter. “Bitter and difficult to swallow. Fitting, for you,” he says.

“If I remember correctly, you can swallow me down just fine.”

“We are in public, Wriothesley.”

“And that’s supposed to stop me from making you blush?” He smirks. “They say you are what you eat. Or… what you drink, I guess, in this circumstance. Hence why you chose the blandest item on the menu.”

Neuvillette lifts his teacup of warmed Fontaine rose water to his lips and takes a delicate sip. The look on his face as he swallows is smug. “Water is not on the menu. It is just assumed to be available, as is the case at most food service establishments. Your point is moot.”

“Sure, dullard.” His arm falls over the back of his chair. “Drink up.”

Easy. It’s always this easy. Wriothesley always feels this seen, this heard, this humored. And with that acknowledgment, he falls deeper into a pitfall he hadn’t seen through the leaves.

They already look like a married couple, bickering with childish insults. They banter as if they’ve known each other for years. They look and talk to one another as if the rest of the world has faded away. Wriothesley can feel himself smiling; even now, as the dread sets in, he’s still grinning his wolfish grin, simply because he’s in the presence of the one person who makes him forget everything else.

He could get used to this. He could have this forever - this love, this moment, those hands, those translucent eyes - and he wouldn’t regret a thing.

He swallows, recalling why they met here in the first place. They can’t risk being seen holding hands, but Wriothesley does reach over and place it on the table face down. It sends a message.

“Do you really need to go?” he asks.

Neuvillette looks at Wriothesley’s outstretched hand and releases a shaky breath of air, as if it pains him to keep his own hands under the table’s surface. “I do. If it was my choice, I would stay.”

“Then it must be important.”

“Tremendously.”

“How long?” He already knows the answer after having asked Neuvillette the same question several times, but he needs to hear it again. He needs to cement it, give himself a timeline - a date to look forward to, so he isn’t driven up the nearest fucking wall while waiting for the inevitable return.

“Not long.” The same answer as before. “Weeks.”

“How many weeks?”

“Wriothesley.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says, the words clipped, a frustration not directed at Neuvillette but at the situation edging into his voice. He looks up at the sky, at the blue of the vast dome of Teyvat and the steady darkening of the heavens. The cheers behind them die down, and the engaged couple departs, laughing and grabbing at each other without a care for who might see.

“You will continue to be Wriothesley.” Neuvillette places his hand a hair away from his, sending a shiver through them both. “And I will continue to be Neuvillette. And you will write to me, as often as you wish, as many times as you please. The post office address I gave you is one I should have access to during my expedition.”

“Expedition. You make it sound so official.”

Truth be told, Neuvillette hasn’t told Wriothesley anything about the nature of his departure other than it being a necessary one. All he knows is that it has something to do with his identity as a Sovereign.

“Well, I’m quite the official person.” Neuvillette stands and extends his arm, abandoning their drinks. The drinks were never the point. “See? I even offer official handshakes.”

Wriothesley gets up and accepts it immediately. They look into each other’s eyes. The spring wind licks their hair.

“You offer a lot more than that.”

“You’d know that better than anybody.”

Wriothesley swallows. The wind blows.

“I love you,” he whispers. It’s only for them to hear, and he makes sure they’re the only two that do.

He will not cry. Not in public. But he’s damn near close.

Neuvillette squeezes his hands tighter as the first inkling of rainfall paints the pavement. “And I, you.” It’s his imagination, it must be, but he almost thinks he feels Neuvillette rub the inside of his ring finger before slipping out of his grip.

“You better come back in one piece.”

“I will.” Neuvillette’s gaze sears him. “I promise.”

Without another word, Neuvillette turns and walks away, each step seeming heavier than the last. Wriothesley knows that it’s easier this way, to pretend that they weren’t going to be apart for an extended period for the first time in a long time. He understands that acting as if they will see each other again tomorrow - same time, same place, same high-quality beverages, same secret intimacy - will make this process easier. They discussed it beforehand.

But it does not dim the hurt, nor does it stop the downpour that begins overhead.

***

~ Grand Iudex Neuvillette,

A week has passed in your absence, which means I can finally write this letter and refer to the VERY long list of issues I have been unable to rant to you about. I can already hear you now: is that all I’m good for? Yes. It is.

I’ll skip past what you already know. Inmate troubles, bookkeeping issues, no peace and quiet, blah blah blah. Did you know that Sigewinne gets restless when you aren’t in Fontaine? Because I sure didn’t. And neither did my coat, which is now covered in small glittery stickers that refuse to remove themselves from the fabric. It seems she copes with arts and crafts. I look like a child’s coloring book from the back, and I blame you. Do you know what this does to my intimidation factor? I’m as threatening as a rubber duck like this.

I’ll be taking the cost of my replacement coat out of your lockbox. Thanks in advance.

The second of the most pressing issues is that the Traveler and their insufferable floating friend came down into the fortress with an ugly-looking camera to take an assortment of “commemorative” photos. The random photo-taking was fine… the Traveler has exclusive rights to all areas of the fortress, as issued by me, and there are no rules against flash photography. The issue was Paimon.

Does she ever shut up? How do you make her stop talking? She dominates the conversation, even in the presence of a blabbermouth. And she kept saying something about mementos and some scrapbook they had to fill out, like a record on repeat, but I completely tuned her out by that point. I don’t think I’ve ever met a creature more of a nuisance, and I’m covered in stickers.

Lastly, and most important of all - you left your pocket watch here. Now, I know how much you value it, considering how often you ignore me to check it, so I’ve decided to carry it on my person. I promise to place it somewhere safe when in the ring. If I shattered it, you’d threaten to send me to the bottom of Fontaine’s ocean.

… Oh wait, I already work there.

I know you’re capable, and I know you’re durable, but please, exercise caution in whatever mysteriously vague endeavor you’re undertaking. You’re growing reckless in your old age, and I’d hate for that to be your undoing.

There is more I would say that I cannot say. But you know what those things would be.

~ Fontaine’s Most Highstanding Criminal, Wriothesley

***

~ Holy All-Seeing Chief Justice Neuvillette,

Two weeks, you big louch. I can’t tell whether to thank you for the extended silence you’ve given me with your departure or to curse you for ridding me of you. This is difficult, and we both know it. I can only twiddle my thumbs and pretend they’re someone else’s for so long.

You haven’t written back to my first letter, but I’m chalking that up to you being too busy to stop by the post office. Celestia, maybe you’ve suddenly developed a hand tremor that keeps you from penning in refined cursive. Either way, you suck, and I expect to hear from you soon. It’s the only way to right these injustices. I’ve heard you’re good at that.

I have nothing new to report, other than the weather, which has been surprisingly sunny. Your influence? I can never be sure. All I know is that gazing out my port window at the gentleness of the water and the glinting of the light above reminds me of you. Your moods, your voice, your smiles… and I will cut that thought off there before I unintentionally pen a sappy soliloquy. You know I’m not the type.

I think we spend too much time together. I’ll be visiting the canteen to check the week’s meals, or jotting in my ledger, or resting my boots on my desk, and I’ll hear you in the back of my mind: “Are you certain this food is edible? Must you really smear your ink across the page like that? And the bottoms of your boots… put them on the floor before I do so by force.”

Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. If you weren’t here at all, even as just an echo, I’m not sure how I’d manage.

I hope all is well. I hope the sun keeps shining. I hope you finally check the post office, Monsieur.

~ Wriothesley, A Most Indignant Duke

***

As he takes his frenetic walk to the pneumo tubes in the Fortress of Meropide’s upper level, Wriothesley traces the stamp stuck to the corner of the letter, eyeing the address like it’s done him a disservice.

Natlan.

Land of the dragons, from what he knows, and the fiery Pyro Archon. It’s not a surprise to him that it’s where Neuvillette had gone. Whatever expedition he’s undertaking must be related to the well-being of the nation. Teyvat hasn’t had the greatest track record when it comes to impending doom in their various lands from what he knows of the Traveler’s adventures, and the constant presence of the Fatui hasn’t helped matters, but… he has a feeling that there’s something… bigger. Something that’s building. A prophecy they can’t prevent. An imminent threat they aren’t prepared for.

The thought almost scares him.

But then he thinks about Neuvillette, and the journey he’s making across the sea, and he revels in the fact that he’ll have him behind him at all times: a defensive and offensive force that would clobber anything and everything before it managed to touch a hair on Wriothesley’s body. Even with him gone, Wriothesley has an unwavering faith in him, one that makes him think Neuvillette would somehow manifest nearby at the hint of crisis.

Neuvillette is undoubtedly doing some digging - or someone has, and has called upon Neuvillette for assistance - which means that he has to have some knowledge of their future and the danger that awaits. If Neuvillette is skilled at anything, it’s finding the truth.

Wriothesley typically takes his time when walking through the fortress, but his walks to the pneumo tubes are always brisk. It’s nonsensical. The spare thirty seconds he takes to get there and mail his letter isn’t going to increase the odds that Neuvillette will see it. This is the third letter he’s written, and Neuvillette has yet to respond to a single one.

That isn’t stopping him from writing them, however. Nothing’s gonna stop him from doing that.

He stops in front of the rightmost tube, unclips the cache, and slips the letter inside. A vacuum draws it up, and he watches through the clear window of the pneumo tube as it propels itself to the surface to be processed and delivered through The Steambird’s postal office.

The sun through the grand, transparent ocean-view window tickles his cheek as he turns, and the sensation is jarring, like a familiar caress against his face. For a brief, haunting second, he feels himself break. One arm falls back to grip the tube’s opening while the other rises to his face. The pneumo room is secure and private, so nobody hears the labored sound that slips from his mouth.

Wriothesley misses him.

Three weeks. Three weeks, and he’s been reduced to… what, a man dying of hydration? That’s how it feels. And it’s embarrassing, really, how he clutches onto the pieces of Neuvillette that remain like lifelines, how he fervently checks his pocket watch for any indentation or damage, how he visits his office daily, his quarters nightly, just to be in a space he once occupied. He’s been breaching the surface of Fontaine more often, sidelining his responsibilities to promenade under the Opera Epiclese, often stopping in front of the fountain in the hopes he’ll hear a dragon’s voice.

Wriothesley isn’t like this. This isn’t his normal. He’s never been the type to allow emotion to guide him, leaning back on logical thought before he lets his heart lead. When you’re in charge of a prison of this magnitude, having a level, unbiased head is paramount. A job like his certainly doesn’t call for a lovesick fool who can’t seem to detach himself from the person who feels like his other half.

He isn’t like this.

It has been three weeks. Neuvillette isn’t dead. Everything is fine.

“Sir?”

He hadn’t heard the door open. He turns to see Sigewinne inching her way inside, shutting the door silently behind her. How hadn’t he heard her? Archons. Archons.

“Sigewinne,” he breathes, wiping a hand over his face, feigning exhaustion, hoping that she hadn’t seen much. He rights himself, smoothing out the weary creases in his face. “Can I do something for you?”

“No need! I’m right as rain. Someone on the surface requested a supply package, specifically a concoction of mine to treat extreme muscle aches, so I’m here to send it up.” She scuttles over to the largest of the pneumo tubes, a package nearly the size of her head in her minuscule arms. “Can you imagine that? Someone asked for me, by name, to make them medicine! I’m honored! I spent the afternoon creating this batch. Oh, I just hope it’s not too bitter…”

She nearly topples over and sends herself tumbling to the ground when trying to insert the package, so Wriothesley steps in, lifts it with a single hand, and does the work for her.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she exhales, smiling up at him with bright, dazzling eyes.

“I believe that’s your job, Sigewinne.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong! I make sure life is sustained. You are the one who does the saving, Duke Wriothesley!”

He wants to believe that. But his emotions are still infuriatingly driving him, so he can’t help the slight scowl he gives before donning a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You are much too kind,” he says. If Neuvillette is in trouble, I can’t do anything to save him. I’m shackled here just like my inmates. His stomach flips.

Sigewinne notices. Of course she does. She notices everything. Her expression falls steadily, like the slow-motion crash of a tidal wave, until her lips are set in a line. She looks out the fortress window, at the branches of coral dotting the surrounding rocks, down at the floor, and then to him again, at his eyes, straight through him.

“He’ll be okay, you know.”

He crosses his arms. Closes himself off. Looks out the window, at the deep blue beyond. “Pardon?”

“Monsieur Neuvillette, he… well, this is not the first time he’s left like this. In the time I’ve known him, I’ve learned a great many things about him. How he thinks. How he behaves. How he feels, and expresses himself, even if he sometimes struggles with the expressing part. Hehe.” She smiles up at Wriothesley tenderly. He catches it in the window’s glass and turns to her. “He doesn’t enjoy staying in one place for too long, even if he says otherwise. And his responsibility to his people... it means a lot to him. He’s gotten injured a few times, like anybody else, and I’ve sent him my remedies, enough to cover his desk two times over! But he never seems to truly need them. I just… worry, like anybody would.”

She takes a step forward. A small hand tugs one of Wriothesley’s arms free, and he lets it fall.

“He can take care of himself. He always has. He knows his limits, what he can do, what he can’t do…” Her grip tightens. “He won’t allow himself to get hurt.”

“How can you be so sure?” Wriothesley asks, allowing himself to be vulnerable for this brief, secluded moment. How can anybody be so sure that Neuvillette wouldn’t sacrifice himself for a greater purpose?

“Because he would never do that to you,” Sigewinne says.

She takes that moment to leave the mail room, casting a single knowing glance his way before the door shuts. Wriothesley paces erratically like he always does after mailing a letter, but he doesn’t do it for as long this time. The echoes of his footsteps against the walls of sheet metal eventually subside.

He can’t afford to doubt. He’s fought alongside Neuvillette on several occasions, and not once has he been disappointed or let down. If he lets his concern shadow his confidence in the man he’s grown to know so well… that’s akin to admitting defeat.

Neuvillette will come home. And he’ll come home unharmed. Of this, Wriothesley must be certain.

***

~ Beguiled Dragon Man,

I suggest you sit down, because I come bearing terrible news. I worry that this is what will finally break your heart and convince you to be rid of me.

The romaritime flowers you gifted to me at the start of the season? They, uh… They’ve dried out.

I think gardening is your expertise. My track record has been terrible. I’m not exactly under the right conditions to take care of plants properly, and your ability to create water at will means that you’re a living, breathing watering can… so I’ll let you have that honor, as much as it pains me to give you any kind of credit.

They were beautiful flowers. I thank you again for them.

I also have to thank you again for that legal codex you gave me, which is sat right next to the now-empty flower vase. It feels like eons ago that you decided to barrel your way into a joke that didn’t concern you at all, and I still don’t know whether to be proud of you or berate you for it. It was funny, I guess. As funny as someone like you can be, when you actually make an attempt at a joke.

But reading it over… this was villainous of you, wasn’t it? Suggesting that frowning constitutes jail time? That fixating on adjusting one’s gloves deserves a reprimand? Clearly targeted. A dart thrown at me while the bullseye is painted on my back.

It was funny at first, but I will find a way to get back at you for this. You mark my words (literally, save this parchment).

~ Someone Who Is At Liberty To Frown, Thank You Very Much

***

~ My Sun,

I was thinking about rain today. About what it means to me.

It means a great deal more to you, obviously, but that doesn’t mean my opinions on the subject need to be sidelined. Nothing can silence me. Not even your rusty old gavel. I stopped by your courtroom earlier this week while it was drizzling, and the sound of the raindrops against the thin ceiling, right above your chair, was soothing. I ended up spending the day there. I haven’t… been entirely present lately, so Sigewinne picks up the pieces when I leave them on the ground. She’s getting pretty good at running the fortress when I’m clocked out.

Anyway, rain. I like it when I can only hear it, but I hate it when I can only feel it. It’s too cold. I hate the cold. Ironic, isn’t it? My jacket is lined with fur for a reason. I hate taking it off, even indoors. I’m sure you’ve noticed all of the quilts and blankets I keep in my quarters. I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my preferences in regards to temperature, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you now, when you aren’t here to keep me warm.

Maybe I’m just missing it. No, not maybe. I am.

You’ve always been my warmth.

~ Your Moon

***

~ Neuvillette,

So I’m declaring that we’re past the point of quiet understanding and have waded into worry territory. I’ve sent you six letters thus far, and you haven’t responded to a single one. I know the post is slow across regions, especially this time of year, but not that slow. And I know that you wouldn’t leave me hanging if you could help it.

Would you?

I hate doubting. I hate the cold. I hate sipping my tea without you across from me. I hate working with the thought that the work will bring you home sooner, because it won’t. I hate not knowing how you are. I hate having no way to talk to you. Even a good morning would suffice. If you sent me a piece of parchment with nothing but a greeting written in the center, I’d feel immeasurably better.

Even a blank parchment will do. Just… something. Give me something to hold that’s touched your hands.

Please, Neuvillette. Write me back.

~ Wriothesley

***

The shower water burns his skin when he steps in. It’s how he prefers it.

He falls into a familiar rhythm, one that had once been interrupted by a consistent, thrumming melody; a melody that no longer plays. When he wets his hair and slowly slicks it back under the damp, he knows that his hands should be someone else’s - fingers that haven’t yet been calloused or scarred despite the battles they’ve faced. When he massages soap into his scalp, it’s with the tenderness of a lover. When the suds slide down his body, clinging to the sharp ridges and points of muscle on his abdomen, he ignores the voice in the back of his mind that comments on the finer aspects of his physique, eager to worship, to admire, to trace scars like they’re beauty marks.

Wriothesley closes his eyes against the steady stream of water and stands still as it drenches him.

Neuvillette often meditated. He didn’t at the beginning of their relationship; not in Wriothesley’s company, at least. He had assumed at the time that it was far too intimate to share. But as they grew closer and their lives fit into each other’s molds, those barriers fell. He would meditate without pretext, without so much as a warning, and Wriothesley would watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, content to look at nothing else but that for hours, if he could afford the time.

Maybe that’s what he needs. Maybe soaking in this hot water will allow him to meditate, too. Find some peace.

He remembers when they had first begun their correspondence with each other. It was via letter, initially under professional pretenses, but slowly, gradually, growing to incorporate this… camaraderie he’d never experienced before. He’d had Neuvillette to thank for his sentencing and positioning as the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, of course. Neuvillette had seen something in him that nobody else had; not even Furina, who had argued that he deserved a bit more jail time, agreed that giving him a position of leadership in a grand underwater detainment facility was a good idea. Even Wriothesley didn’t think it was smart.

But he had done it anyway. Thus bringing about the letters, and eventually, the friendship.

Neuvillette had charmed him immediately. There was something about the way he spoke, the way he handled things… he’d shift from an intensely profound and detailed retelling of a journey under a series of sparkling waterfalls to discussing the intricacies of the court, and he’d do it all in a way that was direct, yet… beautiful. His words were always beautiful, whether it was because of the words themselves, or the way he said them.

Or wrote them, in the case of their letters. Written conversation soon became verbal, once they had met for tea, and the warmth between them had only grown to increasingly difficult-to-manage heights.

Wriothesley remembers all their conversations. They talked about everything, from the physical to the metaphysical, from the emotional to the prerogatives of emotion. Neuvillette was… stunted, at first, in the realm of verbal expression. Especially when it came to his feelings. It took Wriothesley longer than he’d like to admit to pick up on it, but he did, and ever since then, he’d made an effort to always make sure Neuvillette felt heard and understood.

They talked about Fontaine. They talked about their travels; or Neuvillette talked about his travels, and Wriothesley yearned for the day he could retire and take to the road. They talked about dragons, and thunderclouds, and the forces of evil that never seemed to cease their meddling. They talked about tea. They talked about the wounds that inscribed their bodies, where they’d gotten each one. They talked about handcuffs and the many uses for them, and the ways in which they could put them into practice.

They talked about water. Oh, they talked a lot about water. And Wriothesley listened happily during every one of his lover’s tirades because he knew how much Neuvillette secretly delighted in it, despite how he tried to hide his eagerness.

He remembers an afternoon they’d spent fishing in the grassy hills of Fontaine, where it had been much too hot, prompting Neuvillette to complain endlessly about the heat and the sun in his eyes and ‘Must we really sit on this particular dock for the entire course of the day, Wriothesley? The wood is blistering.’ Wriothesley had delighted in his pain, of course, calling him the baby that he was, even as he removed his coat and gave it to Neuvillette to sit on. Wriothesley cast his line over and over, throwing everything back, and Neuvillette detailed each species of fish like he was reading their descriptions from an almanac.

He remembers their nights spent together, an entanglement of limbs and breaths and heartbeats that only they were privy to. Now, Wriothesley didn’t have much experience in the bedroom, but he’d had enough. The scarce lovers he’d taken in the past had no complaints. So when Neuvillette had finally been ready to take that next step, Wroithesley knew exactly what to do. He relished in watching the Grand Iudex come undone in his hands, marveling at the length of him, at the arching of his body and the softness of his skin. He committed several cardinal sins that first night and there was no power imaginable that could’ve stopped him.

Every night since then - hell, every day… he didn’t anticipate it to feel as natural as it did.

His stance in the shower breaks. He braces against the wall as his fists curl, his heated skin prickling as his nails dig into his forearms.

It didn’t just feel natural; no, that wasn’t it at all, because it had always felt natural with Neuvillette. It was the fucking happiness that he didn’t anticipate. Not the kind of happiness at the end of a long work day, or the joy during his moments on the surface, but a different kind, one that was all-encompassing and overwhelming, a constant rush of heat to the head and a cascade of tremors down his back. He forgot about everything else when he was happy with Neuvillette. Nothing could hurt him. He was as indestructible as a human of his stature could get. It wasn’t fleeting, but steady, and real, and ingrained in a spot somewhere nestled deep in his heart, the knowledge that Neuvillette wasn’t leaving, the happiness he felt because of it.

In the shower, he realizes just how strong it was. Now that it’s gone.

Because he had left. Not of his own volition, but because of a circumstance out of his control, one that required him specifically. It was all the same to Wriothesley. There was still an absence, a rock in the jetty that wasn’t there anymore. His peace had been interrupted. There was no stopping the torrent now, and the feeling of crippling loneliness, the reality of a world without the one person who grounded him, it almost felt like too much.

At the tips of his fingers, he feels a chill.

And it’s unfathomable, isn’t it? The crux of it is the uncertainty. The wavering, the teetering, the debate on whether to submit to a new life without love and adjust accordingly, or to continue to hope that he’s still alive and okay. It’s a childish hope, though. Two months is more than a few weeks, objectively speaking, and Neuvillette had said— fuck, he had promised—

The tile of the shower fogs.

What does he do? What does he do? What is this brand of torture? How does he leverage it? He can continue to hope, to believe in Neuvillette’s capacity to come back unharmed, but there’s no guarantee. He has no way of contacting him. He isn’t responding to the letters. He hasn’t seen any signs.

It hasn’t stopped raining.

And even the hope is a false one. To give in to the ignorant bliss of darkness by closing one’s eyes… how is that even marginally better than opening them to the light? To reality? Wriothesley isn’t stupid. He refuses to— to let these transient notions of desire and yearning cloud his judgment. Neuvillette wouldn’t allow that. Neuvillette would see things as they are. He’d stay present. He’d look around him, in this shower, the emptiness of it, and see that—

That—

Frost unfurls from Wriothesley’s hands as he shouts at the ceiling, the sound reverberating throughout the washroom. The ice he creates immediately falls to the ground in a rush of steam, which blurs his surroundings.

He heaves. He blinks. He screams again.

And he cries.

***

~ N,

I’m angry.

Not towards you. Never towards you. You’re what quells the anger. I think that’s exactly why I’m as angry as I am, and why I’m letting the negative emotions lead. I know you calm me, I do. I’m not dimwitted. But it’s hard to think about anything except the darkness in the world when my light is gone.

Why does the world do this? Why are we given such joy, just to have it stripped from us because of means outside of our goddamned control? Why, when I finally find the fucking happiness I’ve been looking for, does it get taken away from me? It’s not fair. I’ve never whined this much in my life. This situation has got me so heated that I’m whining, Neuvillette.

You’re in an impossible situation, I’m sure. Again, I’m not dimwitted - after thinking about it further, I know, for a fact, that you would respond if you could. Something is keeping you from the post office and from writing me back. Whether you’re just too busy - dubious, you bumbling slacker - or something is physically keeping you away from it, I have no way of knowing. It’s infuriating. Angering in a way I have never felt.

Because you… are a part of me. This time apart has made that increasingly apparent. It feels as if a piece of my being is somewhere else. I’m left to exist uselessly in this world, while you are away in an entirely different one.

See? This is why you can’t leave. FIrst, I whine, and then I get mushy as all hell. What’s happening to me?

~ W

***

~ N,

Come home. Please— please. I need you. I had a nightmare last night, worst I’ve ever had, and it was     I saw you     there was so much red, it was on my hands  It was bad. So bad. Really really really bad.

Please come home. Finish whatever job you’re doing and get the fuck back here. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.

~ W

***

~ N,

I don’t remember sending you a letter last night. Actually, that’s a lie - I remember, but I don’t remember. Like it was a dream. I remember waking up, feeling the sweat on my back, seeing the ink on my hands, and… that’s it. The rest has a haze over it, like a photograph that hasn’t developed fully. I had to hear it from one of the prisoners, who likely recounted it with some dramatics, but recounted it nonetheless. Apparently I had been stumbling toward the mailroom in nothing but my undergarments while clutching an envelope to my chest.

Embarrassing. Utterly embarrassing. I can’t believe I’d let myself do something like that. To show that much weakness.

I’m writing this letter in the afternoon, and you’ll probably receive it with the prior letter, so… just disregard whatever I said. Or don’t disregard it. Do whatever you feel is right, depending on what the contents are. I’m talking in circles and wasting paper.

This is also the most I’ve ever spent for postage in a very long time. Stamps aren’t cheap, Neuvillette. I’m draining myself of a small fortune to get these to you. Maybe you’ve forgotten your coin purse, or lost it, or dropped it without realizing, and that’s why you haven’t written me back. Because you can’t afford stamps.

I’ll enclose a few in this letter.

Damn you. I’m struggling without you. I’m coming to terms with that.

~ W

***

~ N,

It’s inescapable. The entire fortress knows. The entirety of Fontaine seems to know, too.

As I walked through the halls this morning, everyone turned to look at me. Every set of eyes. I haven’t been doing my hair or caring much about my appearance lately, so I don’t blame them for staring. To them, I probably looked like an uncaged, frothing beast with broken shackles around my wrists, and that’s honestly fine with me. I’ve been seen as worse. The only real bother was how they murmured as I passed, as if I couldn’t hear. I wanted to shout expletives to them, to command they say it to my face, to demand they return to their duties. I didn’t have the strength to.

Sigewinne looked me right in the face for a long time before scolding me for my lack of sleep and offering a profuse number of remedies I won’t ever use. Arouet, at the café, tilted his head at me as he slid me my coffee. The salespeople in the marketplace avoided eye contact, Charlotte didn’t bother to ask me for a picture when she saw me, and the melusine in the Epiclese didn’t give me a greeting of any kind when I entered. Even the clockwork meka patrolling the perimeter of the city gave me a wide berth.

Clorinde, who came to visit my office to discuss a recently posted bounty, was the only one who didn’t say anything. I think that’s worse than if she did.

The truth is, Neuvillette… I don’t know how to do this without you. Not anymore. You were my reprieve. With how turbulent things have been in Fontaine this past year, my days spent with you were the only times it felt like I could fucking see straight, and now, with nothing to do, with no overwhelming plot threatening to destroy everything we know and with little going on in the fortress, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I don’t know what to do.

You would know what to do. You would know, and you would help me bring in air. Archons forbid I’m allowed to feel like I’m not drowning. You made me feel like I could breathe, even underwater.

I’m not the best with my words. Not like this. Not when I have to think them through, when the words actually mean something. Charming someone, appealing to their desires, exploiting their weaknesses… that’s one thing. That, I can do. But this? Trying to tell you everything I’ve been thinking, and feeling, and yearning for, and dreaming about, and running away from? I can’t do that. Not on a single piece of useless crumpled paper.

I guess that’s what scrolls are for, but I’ll never be that pretentious. Pretentiousness is your job.

I’m writing this on the stage of the Epiclese, directly under the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale. The same place where you saved Fontaine, and me, from what would’ve been the end.

I never thanked you for that.

I hope I get the chance to.

~ W

***

Left flank.

Right shoulder.

Jaw, jaw again.

Central abdomen.

Uppercut.

Roundhouse kick, spin, punch.

Wriothesley doesn’t have a mind for anything else and neither does his body. There’s just energy, so much excess energy, to the point where it’s overwhelming him, he can’t sit still, he can’t focus on anything, anything at all, until he burns it off somehow, through violence, or physical exertion, or sex. It’s flowing out of his temples and down his entire body like hot lava along the crags of a volcano. He’s on fire.

Right breast.

Heatbutt, knee to the groin.

Sweep the ankles.

Right flank.

He’s at the Pankration Ring, which he has sealed to the rest of the fortress for the afternoon. Several broken training dummies lay in a heap under the stairs. Wroithesley grabs one by its rusted arm and tosses it to join the pile before resuming his onslaught on another one. A new target.

Keep going. He has to, or else he’ll collapse and never move again. He has to keep moving, to keep fighting, to keep doing something, because the alternative - doing nothing - is so much worse.

Energy might’ve been the wrong word. Anger is probably a better one. But it’s shameful anger, anger he shouldn’t be feeling. That’s why he refuses to let anyone witness it. He’ll stay here, in the Ring, with punching bags and training dummies that can’t fight back, and he’ll continue to throw his punches until his knuckles are bleeding and his vision fizzles out.

Abdomen.

Abdomen.

Abdomen.

Jaw, jaw.

Uppercut.

The dummy flies through the air. Wriothesley doesn’t track the movement. He’s already pulling another one upright and beating it down before it settles, air leaving him in rushes of fury. He’s grunting, he thinks, but he can’t really hear it. He can’t hear anything.

Another dummy. And then another. How many do they have in storage? They can always make more. He’ll make more, if he has to. He has the time. He’ll have to sneak into the infirmary and steal some bandages before Sigewinne sees, and then wear gloves for the rest of the week, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. He’s starting to feel less like a person and more like a shadow, anyway.

Another dummy.

Why didn’t Neuvillette tell him? That’s what eats him the most. Wriothesley can’t bear not feeling like he has control of the situation, but he has to, because Neuvillette made it that way. He didn’t disclose to anybody his whereabouts. Not him, or the traveler, who Wriothesley has already written to numerous times, and who hasn’t said anything of value. Not Furina. Not a soul in their land. Nobody knows where their Iudex has gone.

The stagnancy is crippling.

Punch, punch, punch, punch, punch.

Kick.

Punch.

Kick.

Punch, punch.

The corners of Wriothesley’s eyes bleed, but not with blood. Pain ripples across his hands with each strike, but the sensation is soothing; an anchor in this endless, lightless sea he’s floating in that he can’t afford to let go of. He can hear his shouts grow louder and does nothing to silence them.

He’s breaking. His chest heaves with exertion. Is he really sinking, now? Or does he still have time to—

He’s being watched.

Wriothesley stills his movements. His arms drop to his sides. He unclamps his right gauntlet from his hand and wipes at his forehead, but it doesn’t help. He’s sweating everywhere.

He turns around.

Clorinde says nothing. Still, nothing. She’s leaning against the opposite corner of the ring, against the encircling elastic ropes, arms folded, eyes on him. He doesn’t need to ask to know that she’d been there for a while. A few minutes, at least. More than enough time to damn him to guilt.

He breathes deeply and leans to the left, his gauntlet weighing him down. He feels like collapsing. He probably will soon.

She relaxes back against the ropes.

“I had a feeling,” she says.

“I haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

“No. You haven’t. Why is nobody helping you?”

“Helping me?” He feels his face contort, his mouth snarl. “You think I can be helped? That ship has sailed, Clorinde. I am long gone. The only thing that could help me isn’t here.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Assessing, he thinks, or letting him calm down. He eventually lets his shoulders go slack. Clorinde, she… she’s the last person that deserves this version of himself. She minds her business, gets jobs done, and suffocates with the duty of protection. She only interferes when necessary. Being the best duelist in the nation requires a honing of one’s temper, and she’s got it down pat. Ire is the last thing she should be seeing from him.

She nods, as if the outburst didn’t bother her at all. Then, from her back - Wriothesley has no idea how she’d been concealing it, she prefers holsters to pockets - she procures a sturdy iron flask. Hard liquor.

“Come,” she says, already halfway down the stairs of the ring. Wriothesley follows.

She leads him through the fortress like she’s as familiar with it as he is, and she might very well be. He’d be surprised if there was a square meter of the world that she couldn’t navigate like the back of her hand. Clorinde walks like she can see the destination directly ahead of her.

Wriothesley already knows where they’re going. They’ve been there once before.

…or, to put it more accurately: Clorinde had been there once before, Wriothesley had noticed her perched on the ledge of the third floor’s previously unreachable upper walkways, and a confrontation ensued. There had been a grate he’d missed, behind crates in a storeroom, that led right up to the top. She had been scoping out the fortress and evaluating Wriothesley’s proficiency as the prison’s administrator, he found her to be immediately impressive, and thus began their circumstantial yet equally beneficial friendship.

They weren’t close friends by any means. They hardly saw each other. Most of Clorinde’s duties were above ground, and Wriothesley’s time this past year had been spent in the company of another. It worked for them, though. Clorinde and Wriothesley didn’t need to see each other constantly to maintain their warmth for each other; it was built on an unbreakable respect that neither was willing to shatter, so occasional interactions were okay with them both. Their mutual respect went unspoken.

They head to that same grate, ignoring the whispers of the fortress workers as they go. The grate leads into a dusty ventilation shaft that’s just big enough for them both to squeeze through. Before they know it, they’ve reached the top.

As Clorinde sits, she huffs, plucking a stray credit coupon from her sleeve that had somehow attached itself to her. One flick sends it skittering over the edge and down to the ground below. She sits with one leg dangling, the other bent and being used as a rest for her elbow. Wriothesley dangles both legs and splays his hands out behind him.

The height is daunting, but he can’t seem to care all that much.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to do this when you’re sad,” he says, taking the flask she proffers him and turning it in his hand.

“Do what?”

“Get wasted.” And sit precariously on a high rise platform.

“Wasted,” she grumbles. Wriothesley isn’t sure if it’s at the notion or the word choice. “No, you just aren’t supposed to drink to the point of comatose. A drink or two is fine. It helps open the floodgates.”

Wriothesley thinks about the sluice gate and the primordial water that threatened to incapacitate every single individual in the Fortress of Meropide and, by proxy, Fontaine.

“Too soon?” Clorinde asks, reading his mind.

It’s… funny. The kind of dark humor that he can enjoy right now. He finds himself smiling for the first time in weeks and raising the now-opened flask to his mouth.

“Don’t overdo it. We still need to get down from here.”

“If you were worried about my safety, you wouldn’t have brought me up here in the first place,” he retorts.

“I trust that you can handle yourself.”

He looks away. The smile fades.

“I normally can.”

She takes the liquor. Her sip from it is faster, snappier. Wriothesley might’ve found it odd to sip from the same flask as someone else once upon a time, but any such feelings have faded. Clorinde is just Clorinde. Unapologetically Clorinde. He doesn’t need to consider such things when it comes to her. She does even the smallest tasks with as much efficiency as possible, and in this case, sharing a flask is most efficient.

They spend a moment in silence, passing the drink back and forth, absently watching the clunking of machines and the shuffling of bodies down below. Ever since Fontaine’s near-demise, Wriothesley has put the construction of automatons on hold in favor of enforcing the structural integrity of the fortress. The orchestra of hammering on the ground floor of the fortress isn’t from the attachment of mechanical limbs onto exoskeletons, but of metal fortifications embedding themselves into the walls.

“I’ve never heard of this kind of training before. Seems brutal, even for you.”

Wriothesley looks at her. She nods down to his knuckles, still caked with blood.

“New technique I’m trying out,” he says absently. There's no humor in it. “It’s effective.”

“I’m worried.”

“You and everyone else.”

“Did you mishear? I’m worried. I’m not talking about everyone else.”

He looks at her, then looks away. She has a point - Clorinde’s opinion about him actually means something, unlike most other people. Everyone else, above and below, milling about and silently judging Wriothesley without actually having an idea of what he’s going through? They’re irrelevant.

But Clorinde knows.

Wriothesley’s never been one to care about public opinion. He cares slightly about what the fortress’ inhabitants think of him, but that’s only because they’re practically his roommates. He has to care about them. It’s part of the job.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

“That won’t work with me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’d rather you stay silent than feed me lies.” She takes the flask back gently, caps it, and slides it into her waistcoat. “He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We would know if he was.”

“Would we?” he bellows, turning the heads of a few lumbering below. They don’t seem to notice Wriothesley, thankfully. “I think you’re wrong. I think it’s the opposite. I think we aren’t capable of knowing anything, Clorinde. This isn’t like a duel, where you can see the opponent you’ve felled right in front of your eyes.”

Most people find Clorinde to be intimidating and difficult to read, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Clorinde is incredibly easy to read. When she feels, it’s plastered across her face like police tape. She just doesn’t allow herself to feel very often, so it rarely rears its head. She’s a lot like him, in that way.

When she flinches at his words as if they’ve jabbed her in the gut, Wriothesley feels instant remorse scratch his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, hoarse. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or something else. His head shakes. “I’m not completely here. I’m…”

He lets that thought drift away. Clorinde appears like she understands, but she doesn’t look at him.

“Say Neuvillette is dead, then. Theoretically.” Her mouth draws into a sharp line. “We hear all the time about the deaths of commoners in Fontaine who have traveled out of the city’s walls and taken on more than they can handle. Their bodies are eventually identified and tracked back to here. Neuvillette is our chief justice. He’s a public name. And I have seen how he can manipulate Hydro in the heat of battle. If he were to die, the elemental energy released would be noticeable. At the very least, his body would be recognized and we would be told of his passing.”

“I don’t trust that,” Wriothesley replies quietly.

Clorinde’s expression darkens. She doesn’t say anything for a moment; just closes her eyes, and breathes. Wriothesley breathes with her. Below them, the chattering stops, in a blissful moment of silence.

“I understand loss,” she starts, running one of her thumbs over the emblem on her glove. “My job is loss. My undertaking is loss. I carry a gun at my belt and a sword at my side, and I use both. The art of a duel is one that is fair, but that often results in loss. I know it better than I know most things. I know it professionally, I know it… intimately.”

Her eyes close again. She breathes.

“Loss doesn’t just take away a person,” Clorinde says. “It takes away everything you could’ve said to them.”

It’s hard for him to fully process anything in the state he’s in, but something about that breaks through. Because he sees it - has seen it, when the Primordial Water came. When Neuvillette had retired to their bed speaking of a large dangling sword, spinning precariously in the air. When Wriothesley was a child at the foster home, and…

Wriothesley knows that Clorinde does not like to be touched, but he has the very sudden urge to wrap an arm around her, for himself and for her. Like always, he's underestimating those around him.

“Neuvillette could be dead. I believe it is unlikely. But if he’s alive…” Clorinde looks at him. Her eyes are pained. “Do you want my advice?” she asks, like somehow, after all their talk, she seems uncertain that Wriothesley could trust her with matters like this.

“Please,” he says, ignoring how it trembles.

“Don’t wait. Tell him everything. Do not let a single word go unspoken. Let your heart bleed for the both of you. Because if he loses—“ She shakes her head. Swallows. Looks at the platform beneath them knowingly. “If he leaves this world without hearing what you have to say, neither of you will come out of it alive.”

He can’t help himself. His hand acts without thinking, reaching over to clasp Clorinde’s shoulder and squeeze.

She stares at it, her eyes marginally widening, before they meet his. Wriothesley sees a lot of things swimming in them. Understanding. Shock. Anguish.

Relief.

Then she hugs him.

“You’ll live,” she mutters into his shoulder. Then, a heartbeat later, “You will.”

For the first time in months, Wriothesley believes it.

***

~ N,

Pen to paper. Stream of consciousness. Okay. I can handle that. Apologies for the preamble. I was told that this would help.

You mean everything to me, Neuvillette. Everything. This time apart can’t happen again. I can’t go this long without seeing you because it

I love you more than the stars   the moon     the stars, our moon, your sun, and everything else in that deep black void above us    the shitty poetry you sometimes have me read that has had a regrettably more than noticeable effect on the way I write to you.

This is hard. I’ve already broken two pens because I’m writing with too much force.

***

~ N,

Take two, as Furina would say. I have a feeling this will not be the last.

I’ve already tried to write this letter once before, and the words didn’t come to me. I don’t know why it’s so difficult. I’ve always been a paragon of communication, even if that communication had been with my knuckles in my earlier years.  Eh, still counts  With you, it comes easily. It didn’t always, mostly at your behest. You were shut up tighter than… well, I could make a crude joke about something that’s tight, but I don’t think this is the time nor place and why am I still writing I’m going to just scratc   The point is, you sucked at talking. To me. To everyone. I’d like to think I helped you change that.

Helped. Not helping. I’m talking about you in the past tense. You’re still here, right? You’re alive?

Archons, what’s wrong with me

***

~ Neuvillette,

~ My Neuvillette,

~ You big blue bastard, fuck, please respond

Tonight, I’m not even gonna try. Tonight is about my feelings, each and every ounce of them that I feel, that I can’t tell anybody about because I know I’ll be too far fucking gone if I do. Except to you. I can say them to you. You’ll catch me if I fall.

I’m going in circles, Neuvillette. Not the nice ones, the walks we take along Fontaine proper, your knuckles brushing mine like you’re struggling so badly, like me, to not hold my hand, that you need at least some point of contact that’s permittable… the waters crashing against the stonework before stilling, the finches overhead, your low rumble of a laugh, my eyes never leaving you even with the oceanic view. No, it’s nothing like that. Nothing.

It’s this logical circle, where I know that if you were receiving these and reading them, you’d write back, and the only logical explanation is that you aren’t reading these, for some unknown reason, or you have no way of responding.

But then the circle loops, because I’m Wriothesley, and what do I do? Think. About every outcome, about every possible scenario. I think that there is a world in which you didn’t leave for work, but left this life, to return to what you had before, maybe? The life you rarely tell me about. I think you found this all a bit juvenile, a bit drab, Fontaine too sedentary for you, which I understand, even if I don’t understand why you wouldn’t bring me with you. I think you find it embarrassing that I can’t go a short length of time without talking to you, and that I have resorted to writing silly little letters in my barely legible chickenscratch you’ve always put up with like it’ll somehow convince you that whatever you’re doing is less important than catering to my clinginess. I’m not normally like this, I should have you know.

I’m not like this for anybody but you.

Circles circles circles. I’m throwing this away

***

~N,

Several notes are sitting at the bottom of the bin. You know, the one I hide under my desk that you constantly proclaim is placed in a really shitty place - or, as you’d say, in an “abysmally inconvenient” place. It constantly hits my legs. You think that’s annoying, even though it’s not your legs it’s hitting, it’s mine. I find that endearing.

Every time I sit down to write, I get derailed. I know what my goal is - to tell you everything, so that nothing is up for debate and nothing goes unspoken. There’s an inherent flaw in that, though. There’s far too much to tell you. There’ll never be an end to it. I’ll just keep talking, reminiscing, missing, chastizing. Fondly, obviously. Always fondly.

Ad nauseam, I know. You don’t have to say it.

I should set them on fire. Get the traveler here, with their newfound pyro abilities, and tell him to melt the entire bin to cinders. I’d just ask Lyney, but I don’t think I have the energy to fake a smile right now.

If I stop writing, I’ll regret it. If I keep writing, I’ll regret it. If I torch the letters, I’ll spare us both the pain, but it’ll linger. And I’ll regret it.

I guess I’ll add this to the pile.

***

~ N,

I’m writing this at your desk with your brass-handled quill, the one that’s dented from you dropping it. It’s raining outside, and it smells like you  bellflower dust in here. And wet earth. And that soap you use, the one I like, that reminds me of cypress wood.

I think it’s given me a clear head. Or, at least, something close to one, enough so that I can hear myself think. I’ve been doing so much thinking lately, but it’s felt muffled and obscured, like it’s being spoken under a very thick blanket. I can rationalize now. It feels like I can rationalize.

The change of scenery has been nice. It’s forming in my head, what I need to do. How I should approach this. How I can convey to you the importance of my words, even if you already comprehend how important they are. Even if you would comprehend that, if you were reading them.

I’m making progress. I want to make more progress. And I think, if I want to keep moving and stop moping, I need to find another piece of you that isn’t material.

***

In Fontaine, there is a bench.

It’s a small bench. It’s intricately crafted with wood and metal inlay, the armrests in the pattern of a fleur-de-lis. It’s a relatively mundane bench. There isn’t anything too special about it. On the wood, there are initials carved, barely legible, and it’s pretty weathered from rain, but that’s about it.

To Wriothesley, it is a memory.

He and Neuvillette had reached the peak of their friendship. They’d just prevented the threat of the rattling sluice gate, and had a moment of victory, entrenched in the hardship and tribulation they’d just gone through together. They’d always trusted each other, sure, but that had been a tipping point: where surface-level trust had grown deeper. They knew they could count on each other when it mattered, even if lives were at stake. They felt equal. They felt whole when they stood with each other.

Wriothesley had received an anonymous tip in regard to the prophecy soon to befall Fontaine, and was following up on it. He’d left the comfort of the fortress, breached the surface, and stalked to the provided location. It was just a boy crying wolf in the end, but he didn’t let that stop him from enjoying the fresh Fontaine air. He went for a walk.

And that’s when he’d seen Neuvillette.

They talked. They watched the stars together. They argued, but Neuvillette hadn’t always been the best at voicing his intentions.

Wriothesley runs his bare fingers over the top of the bench, feeling his skin fall into the grooves of the wood. When he sits, and it creaks underneath his weight, he’s taken right back to that night, to the conversations they had, to what he now knows was almost their first kiss.

I know Miss Furina expects the high and mighty Neuvillette you put on for the court, but… I don’t think that’s really you. Some of it is, surely, but not all. And you shouldn’t feel like you have to put it on all the time.

Neuvillette had looked him dead in the eyes, when he’d said that.

Perhaps… Perhaps I only want certain people to see the real me.

He shivers. The air feels cold. Wriothesley feels the first spit of rainfall from the sky and watches as it blooms across the fabric of his pants.

A drizzle turns to a downpour. He soaks through his clothes. His hair, pushed back, drips rivulets down his back. His boots fill with rainwater.

And he stays.

***

~ Neuvillette,

The last letter stopped abruptly. There’s a reason for that. I took all the letters out of the bin and slipped them into their own envelopes. I’m mailing them all to you. You’ll see every mistake, every scribbled-out line. I want you to.

I know exactly what I need to say to you now.

Come home, so I can.

*** - ***

When the Fortress elevator reaches the surface with its usual clang, the sound is irritating enough to almost make Wriothesley dent the metal wall with his fist. But it doesn’t. He restrains himself. That’s not him, and he refuses to allow his anger to overtake.

In his fingers, he clutches a letter. It’s the most recent one he’s written and the final one he’ll send to Neuvillette. It’s brief, but it’ll get his point across. It’ll do its job. The mail tubes in the fortress are currently under repair, so today he’s venturing to the surface to mail it out by hand.

He deserves an award for this. Neuvillette better hand him a shiny gold medal when he gets back, because the winter in Fontaine bites, and it bites hard. Snow is coming down in hard white sheets. The prints of phantom feet line the walkways of the Opera Epiclese, but there’s nobody in sight when Wriothesley steps out into the frigid air. He slides the envelope into the folds of his jacket and shivers, all the way down to his soles.

It’s hard to even walk up here.

He associates the surface with Neuvillette. He associates the cold wind with Neuvilllette, with the way his hair flows and cascades like a waterfall when a breeze hits it. The morning sun rising over the horizon is the same gold as his jewels. Even the snow is a reminder, as when it touches the palm of Wriothesley’s hand, it melts.

For a second, the air leaves his lungs, and he pauses. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. He can’t bare the reminders and he can’t handle the thoughts. He’s spent so long repressing them, lost in a cycle of emotional and physical pain. It’s easy to linger on the sadness, funnel it out with aggression, float in the hopeless emptiness, and then do it all again. It gives him something to do.

But Wriothesley knows that if he runs now and doesn’t face this, he’ll only be prolonging the cycle. He’ll be perpetuating a state of mind that he knows, in his heart, Neuvillette would berate him for. If he wants to recover and come to terms with…. whatever Neuvillette’s fate is, he needs to keep moving. He has to keep doing, keep breathing, keep walking.

So he walks.

The snow sparkles. In the distant water, a boat’s horn blares, and Wriothesley wonders if they’re fishing for seasonal catches. He doesn’t know how the fish can stand the icy nature of the water in winter. Wriothesley might love the burn of cold, but even he struggles to stomach below zero temperatures.

He draws his coat closer to himself, sniffing the fur along the collar. His hair whips, sending gray and black over his eyes, obscuring his vision at regular intervals. For a moment, he cuts his eyes to the sky.

It’s a clear day. A beautiful one, even with the snow.

The Fountain of Lucine isn’t frozen when he reaches it. Its waters still shift, dancing in the basin and jetting from the faucets with full functionality. His gaze lingers.

The shaky sigh that escapes him is unpreventable. The color of the water… it’s identical to Neuvillette’s eyes. The coins at the bottom look like pupils.

Spending your time off the clock making wishes, Great Iudex?

I’m afraid I don’t keep change on my person, Wriothesley, for people like you may feel inclined to pickpocket me.

It’s almost warm, here. He can feel it tickle the back of his neck. Something wants him to stay here. Wriothesley isn’t sure if he can.

He sighs again and begins to turn away.

“...lease…”

Wriothesley’s eyes shoot open. That wasn’t in his mind. He spins around, gaze darting about the courtyard, looking for whatever could’ve said that. Whoever. It sounded like a voice. A gruff sound. A man’s whisper.

A familiar whisper.

“...riothesley, where are…”

The fountain. It’s coming from the fountain. Wriothesley white-knuckles the edge of the stone and peers in, eyes flicking back and forth, back and forth, along the steady ripples, looking deep in the water, like there’s something in it he needs to see. Someone to find. The voice sounds almost desperate.

“...Neuvillette?” he dares whisper, leaning close enough to the water that the tip of his nose comes up dripping. He’s frantic. Frantic. Months of inactivity, of things to say, of ways to express his love… it all comes bubbling to his lips. “Can you hear me? Neuvillette.” He swallows, allows a moment to pass. “I—”

“Wriothesley!”

The voice is still coming from the fountain, but it’s somewhere else, like a warbling echo underwater. His heart nearly breaks from his chest. It’s too much. Too much hope, too much longing, too much wishful thinking for something he isn’t sure he’ll ever have again. It’s too much, and he knows he’s a fool for wanting it anyway, but still, he chases it.

He turns around.

Wriothesley looks into the distance, up the grand pathway leading to the Epiclese, and it’s there that he sees the second source of the voice.

Neuvillette is different.

…no, he’s not different, he’s… he’s the same, except that his eyes are glowing, their color a diamond blue, brilliant enough for Wriothesley to notice. The ends of his hair are that same deep hue, and from his head, there are horns, almost in the shape of coral twigs. They’re short, but they’re there. It’s his appearance that’s different. It’s just his appearance.

But it’s still Neuvillette.

Neuvillette is standing there.

Wriothesley’s breath catches in his throat. He makes a ragged sound, something caught between a gasp and a groan, and his fists reach up to scrub his eyes. He blinks. Blinks again, shakes his head free of snow, and looks on again. And Neuvillette is still there.

Clarity. It settles the trees, it quiets the birds, it softens the crunch of the snow beneath his feet as he shifts. It’s like a ball of ice being dropped into a lukewarm bath. Shocking. Scalding. An abrupt temperature change. He finds his lucidity. Snowflakes fall around the both of them, in the space separating them, from the sky above to the ground below.

Wriothesley runs. He loses his breath almost immediately, the combination of the cold with the flare of adrenaline with the lingering sensation of disbelief... It all swirls into a mess in his head, in his lungs, that has him struggling to stay upright. But he can’t seem to care.

When he collides with Neuvillette, air returns to him.

“Idiot,” he mouths, to himself, to Neuvillette. He’s not sure why. Gods, he’s delirious. He’s dreaming. His chapped lips scratch Neuvillette’s bare neck. He can feel the strength of the grip that’s encircling his waist and crushing him close just as his arms are trying to do the same, reaching up, feeling for hair, for skin, for…

“Don’t— ngh, touch them,” Neuvillette grits out, swatting Wriothesley away from the peculiar horns he’s sprouting.

“That just makes me want to touch them even more,” he stammers, cupping his face, his jaw, fingers loose in the glowing curls of Neuvillette’s hair. And then, just because he can say it, just because he can’t quite believe this is real, just because he needs to know that this is real: “Neuvillette.”

“I’m so sorry,” Neuvillette replies, a broken thing, dancing and shivering like a dangling branch. Wriothesley has never heard him sound so broken. They grip each other’s faces, Neuvillette out of need, Wriothesley out of something beyond need. If this is a figment of his mind, he can’t allow it to fall apart. “An apology will never suffice for the silence I’ve put you through, but I will give it regardless. I am deeply, profoundly sorry. I… I was not able to write back. Matters kept me from doing so.”

Sorry? He’s sorry?

“Shut up,” Wriothesley breathes, before taking Neuvillette down his throat.

His lips are cool, gentle, a touch against Wriothesley that asks a thousand questions and answers a thousand more. It’s not so much a kiss as it is a conversation: it’s a way for them to be close, to create a channel through which they can inhale and worship and nestle in their stillness. Neuvillette’s lip is quivering, and it’s the only sign that he’s tearing at the edges. Wriothesley can feel the trails of tears on his cheeks, the way they pool in the grooves between Neuvillette’s hands, still latched to his face.

Six months don’t do it justice. It was more than that. They are more than that. Wriothesley swears to himself, as the kiss carries on, that he’ll never put either of them in the position to let go of this love for as long as he can fight for it.

When they part, Wriothesley realizes just how badly he’s shaking. It’s a tremor in his chest and his hands. His hands he can rein in, but even during a steadying deep breath, the exhale shivers. The collapse was inevitable; he’s felt it for weeks, and it just so happens that the fall culminates in him bending forward, pressing their foreheads together, and shutting his eyes so all he feels is the cut of the cold and the warmth of his lover.

“I thought…” Wriothesley whispers, but Neuvillette rushes a finger to his parted lips.

“I know what you thought. You thought incorrectly. I am unharmed. I am safe. I am here, Wriothesley. Here.” A beat. “Look at me.”

He does. Their eyes meet. A second wave of wetness threatens his eyes, and Wriothesley has the forethought to feel some embarrassment. Only some.

“Do not mind my… horns,” Neuvillette looks to the side, his cheeks tinged a wondrously light pink. “The transformation has left some residual effects that will take more time than I thought to diminish. We will have to take shelter somewhere private, soon, as to avoid prying eyes. But before that…”

He takes Wriothesley’s hand. In it, now crumpled beyond repair, is an envelope. The final envelope he was going to mail to Neuvillette.

“Did you get them?” Wriothesley blurts, trying further to steady his wavering voice.

“Of course.” Neuvillette reaches into his waistcoat and reveals a bundle of envelopes, tied together with a band. “I collected them all at the same time, right as I was about to depart. I was going to read them, but I decided against it. The time spent reading would’ve been time spent away from you. You were my priority. As soon as I was able to leave, I rushed here.”

“...you haven’t read them?” He scans his eyes, back and forth, looking for a hint of a response in them. “Not a single one?”

“Every letter is unopened.”

Wriothesley exhales. His hand shakes when he reaches out, but his fingers are firm as they wrap around the stack of letters. He can’t help but marvel at the thickness of them in his hand. How much paper had he used? How many letters total is this? How much time did he spend worrying?

He doesn’t know. And he never thought he’d be grateful to hear that Neuvillette hadn’t read his letters, but he is. He doesn’t want Neuvillette to read them.

He lets them fall out of his hand, onto the ground. They leave a mark in the snow. When Neuvillette bends down to pick them up, Wriothesley stops him with a hand to the chest.

“They don’t matter.” He swallows. He stands up straighter, as straight as he can. He glances down at the slim space between them. “This does.”

Neuvillette’s watching him raptly, just like he always has, just like Wriothesley knows he always will. How he’s come to deserve this kind of unwavering attention from a man like Neuvillette, he’ll never know. He’s doubtful it’ll ever make sense to him.

He sighs, filling the air with hot breath, wanting to prolong this, but he knows its useless. Even if this is something heavy they’ve never said to each other out loud, it needs to be out there. He’s gotta let it sing.

Tell him everything. Do not let a single word go unspoken. Let your heart bleed for the both of you.

“We haven’t had… a great track record. With talking about our feelings.” He clenches a fist, then unclenches it. “You’ve made plenty of progress, but while you’ve been working to be better, I think I’ve become… complacent. I thought I was flawless in the department of communication. I didn’t think there was any work for me to do, because I’d already done it all. There wasn’t anything I wasn’t willing to talk about. Especially with you.

“But I… I was wrong. There are things I’m scared about, even if you’re the one I’m saying them to, because they have weight to them. Actual, tangible weight. And if I say them, and you don’t say them back… if they aren’t reciprocated, or if you don’t believe I mean them wholly, or… fuck, you tell me it’s something you can’t commit to…”

A hand wraps around his, but that’s it. There’s no interruption. Wriothesley laughs, but it sounds choked.

“I don’t know what I’d do. But you know what I’ve realized? What I should’ve realized a long time ago? We might not always be here to say things to each other. Something might actually happen to us. And I can’t take that chance. I can’t risk not saying something to you that I know I need to say to you.

“So fuck it. Fuck it all. I don’t care if this breaks us. I don’t care if this breaks me. It has to come out.”

It’s strange. One moment, Wriothesley feels an all-encompassing dread, nudged on by the whipping of the winterwhite breeze, and the next, with just the squeeze of his fingers, with the stern, penetrating look of the Chief Justice that has steadily become his life’s rock, the dread vanishes. The icy rock in his throat melts.

“I don’t care where in the world you go. I don’t care what happens to us, or how far apart it pulls us, or how long it takes us to find our way back. I don’t care if it’s not in your job description, or if it’s not in mine, or if our lifestyles don’t allow it. You…”

He swallows. Looks straight on.

“There will never be anybody else for me, Neuvillette. Not a soul. Not in this Teyvat. Not in the next.”

The winds calm. His breathing steadies. Wriothesley feels himself smile, even if he doesn’t mean for it to grace his face.

“You are the one for me. And if it’s not you… then it’s nobody.”

In the distance, above the stretching buildings of Fontaine, dawn breaks. It shines through the trees and paints the snow yellow, and the warmth of it against Wriothesley’s skin feels like something new. Something right.

Neuvillette looks at him for a long time. Long enough for Wriothesley to feel sweat on the back of his neck. He shakes his head minutely, lip twitching, as if egging Neuvillette on. Say something, asshole. Please. Put me out of my misery.

“As if anyone else could tolerate you for this long,” is how the lout responds.

Wriothesley rolls his eyes, but he’s not bothered. “So journeying across the continent for several months hasn’t stopped you from being a snark?” he asks, ignoring the crack in his voice. “Got it.”

“It was merely an observation…”

“A tactless one. A rude one.”

“Am I wrong? I believe if I were anybody else, you would end up striking me in the head, for one reason or another.”

“I’ve come close to punching you a few times.”

Neuvillette smiles. “Case and point.”

That gets a laugh out of him, which expands the smile on Neuvillette’s face until he’s also chuckling, that throaty, deep chuckle of his. And as the rising of the sun coats them in glowing light, and the only sound to fill the air is that of their joy, Wriothesley doesn’t think anything could ever make him happier.

“But you’re right. That was tactless of me,” Neuvillette says, as Wriothesley’s laughing is dying down. “I should remedy it.”

Something is heavy in his voice. That something, whatever it is, shakes them both into silence. Wriothesley sobers immediately. His eyes find Neuvillette’s.

Neuvillette clears his throat. The sound is so familiar to Wriothesley’s ears that it racks a jolt through him. “In my time away from you,” he begins, “I thought extensively about us. About what we are, who we are… what we mean to each other. I’ve investigated every facet of our connection from the lens of an external source, as to glean new information about it.” His brows pinch. Wriothesley wants to reach out and smooth the crease, and he actually gives into the pull, which makes Neuvillette smile. “We are like magnets, you and I. Anybody can see it. I am tired of pretending that I don’t. You seem to be exhausted by the fact that we’re ignoring it, and, quite frankly, I am tired of hiding. I do… enough of that.

“We’re together, but that isn’t enough. It was never enough. Not for me, at the very least. Perhaps I’m being selfish by saying as much, and the more proper course of action would be to consider your feelings like I’m considering mine before coming to such a decision, but… I am incapable of reading minds, as much as I might try. I’ve come to realize that. Even yours is an enigma to me.

“Mysteries often have multiple solutions, however. And I think I have one of sufficient strength.”

Wriothesley’s throat constricts as Neuvillette reaches into one of the many pockets of his cloak - the bowels of which Wriothesley has never seen in full - and unveils a small velveteen box, blue with a snowy white trim.

Our colors.

“I understand that a ring is customary,” he says, opening the box, revealing a blue pendant in the shape of a teardrop, “but you’ve never been one for tradition.”

In the box, the pendant pulses with life, like a heartbeat resides within. Knowing Neuvillette, that might just be accurate.

Wriothesley can’t speak. All that manages to leave him is a breath of air that says, Really? Now? When I’m already a mess? And Neuvillette’s response is simple.

He gets on one knee.

Neuvillette’s hands fidget around the box, indicative of his poorly concealed nerves. If Wriothesley weren’t frozen to the spot in awe, he’d take pride in the fact that only he was capable of making Neuvillette shake like this.

“I am bound to you unconditionally,” he says, lifting his head to look up at Wriothesley. The light catches his eyes like pebbles on a shoreline. “A proposal will not change that. So this is me asking you…” From under the cloth covering his chest, he reveals a matching pendant, strung around his neck and pulsing a snowy silver that matches the glow of Wriothesley’s vision. “Will you do me the honor of binding yourself to me?”

For a moment, everything is still. A living, breathing photograph.

There is no better answer to that question, Wriothesley thinks, than lugging up the old oaf by the undersides of his arms and kissing him. So that’s what he does.

And it’s strange, because he instinctively takes a completely different approach to kissing Neuvillette than he usually does: under normal circumstances, whether in the privacy of Neuvillette’s office or the shadowed depths of the fortress, he’s aggressive. That’s what Neuvillette likes. That’s what he likes, too, because he can’t help to do it any other way. His affection for Neuvillette is too powerful for grace and modesty.

But this time, he makes it soft.

He curves his palm over the skin of Neuvillette’s cheek and spends a hair’s length just feeling it. And then when he leans forward to slot his lips against Neuvillette’s, it’s with a care he’s never given anything in his life. Except the man in front of him, of course.

When he thinks back over the years of his life, of the decades spent brawling just to live and the late nights drawing up escape scenarios, he never thought he could have this. He never thought he’d come back from being what he was as a child: forgotten, alone, neglected, and always, always, cold.

Neuvillette was his second chance, now that he ponders it. Neuvillette was one of the first people to truly believe in him and his talents. Therefore, if he has to connect the dots and string everything along into a sequence of events… Neuvillette was his first source of happiness.

He’s been happy at other times, obviously. Everyone experiences happiness. The world is brimming with it. But with their confessions out in the open, with the glowing pendants between them, pressed against their hearts… well…

Wriothesley can’t help but feel that Neuvillette will also be his final source of happiness.

When he pulls back, ending the kiss and lingering on the warmth it brought, Neuvillette clears his throat. “I will assume that to be a yes, but I would still like to request verbal or written confirmation for fear of an incorrect assumption.”

“It’s a yes, Neuvillette. Do you really think I’d kiss you like that and then say ‘no, actually, I’d like to back out of this relationship, thanks’?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Only you would propose and insult me in the same breath.”

“It’s how we show our affection for each other, is it not?”

Wriothesley shrugs, but a smirk taunts his lips. “Hmph. You’re lucky I love you enough not to shove you into the snow.”

With their hands now interlocked, their hearts full, and their eyes never straying from each other, the both of them walk past the fountain’s waters, back the way Wriothesley came, back down the path, back to the fortress elevator.

Back home.

“You’re lucky I love you just the same,” Neuvillette whispers, squeezing his fingers.

And Wriothesley can’t stop smiling.