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The cool night air caresses his face as he steps out of the opera house. The lilting notes of the closing song echoes in his ears, a pleasant contrast to the hushed conversation of fellow spectators drifting home.
Neuvillette tilts his head up, admiring the star-studded, velvety-blue sky.
He lingers for a moment, a little reluctant to return to his stuffy office to finish the day’s work. His desk is piled high with papers, ledgers, letters, and receipts that he needs to review, revise, approve, reject, or simply sign. He can almost hear them beckoning him softly, their clamouring voices drowning out the gentle music that has been lingering in his mind.
Behind him, the star of the show exits the opera house. There’s a surge amidst the spectators as they all turn towards Lady Furina, a few bursting into applause while others crane their necks to get a better look at her. Neuvillette simply steps behind one of the large stone pillars, not wanting to steal her attention from her adoring fans.
He is glad for her. He is proud of her. She has bounced back amazingly. He heard it as she sang her heart out earlier, her voice clear and strong. She truly is a star, a woman born for the stage. And now that she is allowed to play for her own sake, she does it even more beautifully.
Feeling at peace despite the monumental workload ahead of him, Neuvillette turns, ready to head back to the Palais Memornia.
His path is blocked by a short, red-clad woman holding a Kamera. Her smile is sharp and her eyes are crinkled at the corners. Her credentials as a journalist for the Steambird hang proudly on a strap around her neck.
“Miss Charlotte,” Neuvillette greets. Careless – he is usually much better at avoiding journalists. He knows Miss Charlotte won’t have taken his picture without asking first, but he’s still a bit miffed at having been ambushed.
The young woman smiles charmingly. No doubt she has successfully been granted many interviews thanks to that smile. “Monsieur Neuvillette, a moment of your time, if you please. I have but one question.”
“Please, do ask.”
“Have you chosen your partner for the opening dance of the Festival du Renouveau?”
Under the leather of his gloves, Neuvillette’s palms turn clammy.
Oh dear. The Festival du Renouveau, the annual New Year ball, hosted by the elite of Fontaine to celebrate the past year and welcome the new one with grandeur.
In centuries past, as the Hydro Archon, Lady Furina has opened every ball with a dance. Each year, men and women fretted for weeks before the event, hoping to be chosen for the great honour of being her dance partner. She had, obviously, made quite a show of it, going through lengthy selection processes, until the right person caught her eye. Some say the ball is what will set the tone for the upcoming year. Wagers are placed, polls are made. It is always a huge spectacle; beloved of the gentry, acclaimed by the regular folks, and dreaded by the gestionnaires.
Dreaded by Neuvillette too, but for a different reason altogether.
Miss Charlotte is still looking at him, her head tilted, visibly awaiting an answer. He is certain she will wait all night if she has to.
He clears his throat.
“No comment.”
***
NO COMMENT is printed in dark, bold letters on the front page of the Steambird the next morning. The headline glares accusingly at Neuvillette as he stares at it, a cup of tea forgotten in his free hand. Beneath the headline, Miss Charlotte, her voice echoing sweetly through her clever words, asks if Monsieur Neuvillette intends on cancelling the ball, for why else would he refuse to answer such an innocent question?
Thank the sovereigns, the journalist has no idea why Neuvillette chose that bland comment. He has not forgotten about the ball - obviously not. A few of his gestionnaires have been pulled away from their regular work to organise the whole thing, after all. He has known it was coming, has heard in meetings that the organisation was progressing well and that everything is going to be ready for the New Year.
However, up until last night, Neuvillette must admit that it had not crossed his mind who would replace Lady Furina. That part of the ball had always been her prerogative, and nobody amidst his gestionnaires had been brave enough to ask him who would replace her.
It makes sense that Miss Charlotte would expect him to step up. After all, the opening dance of the ball is to be performed by the leader of Fontaine. Now that Lady Furina has stepped down, leaving him in charge, he is the leader of Fontaine. While he used to be able to stay on the fringes of things, sometimes avoiding the ball altogether, this time he simply cannot absent himself. Everybody will be looking to him to make a great impression; to welcome the New Year.
And the Fontainians need it. They need cheer and glitter and a grandiose event after everything that has happened over the last few months. Breaking tradition right now will only lead to trouble later.
Furthermore, Lady Furina loved that ball, and Neuvillette feels he needs to preserve it for her sake.
How is he going to get out of this conundrum, then?
A sound catches his attention. Neuvillette looks up from the folded newspaper towards the open bedroom door. Cocking his head, he realises he’s hearing music coming from the adjoining office.
Ah, so Wriothesley is already at work then, listening to that Victrola of his while going through spreadsheets and balancing accounts.
Neuvillette gets up from his chair, wrapping a blanket tighter around his shoulders against the humid chill of the Fortress and tiptoeing to the door to peer out.
It makes sense for Wriothesley to have his personal quarters and office connected – that way, he can simply get up from his chair in the evening and drag his feet to bed without much fuss. It also means that he can do the same, but in reverse, in the morning. Right now he’s seated at his desk, clad only in the cotton trousers he wears for bed. He’s lit a few oil lamps that cast a warm, reddish glow over his black hair. His head is bent towards his work so he doesn’t spot Neuvillette watching him.
Wriothesley is a mystery to Neuvillette. Despite the fact that their relationship has been ongoing for quite a few years already, there are times when Neuvillette feels as if he’s just met the other man. Every time he sees him, he cannot help but marvel at the rugged charm Wriothesley oozes. In public, he’s charisma personified, projecting an image of confidence, with a debonair attitude. Very few people have had the honour of seeing his real self, the side he keeps hidden from prying eyes. Wriothesley, in moments like this one, is soft, gentle, hardworking and capable. There’s something almost vulnerable at the way his bare neck is exposed, scars uncovered.
Neuvillette’s heart soars like a bird in his chest.
He must have made a sound, because Wriothesley’s pale blue eyes leave the ledger to settle on him. Neuvillette feels the warmth of his gaze like a physical thing.
“Ah, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Wriothesley says, mouth stretching in a lazy smile. “Tousled as usual in the morning. What a pretty sight.”
Self-consciously, Neuvillette runs his fingers through his hair. Oh, dear, his locks are indeed in disarray. “Good morning,” he greets.
“I saw the headline. Miss Charlotte must have been thrilled by your eloquent comment last night.”
Neuvillette cannot stop himself from heaving a disconsolate sigh.
He walks into the office, trailing his fingers over the cheap wood frame of an armchair. All around him, the air is filled with the aromas and sounds of the Fortress, a heady mix that has become familiar.
“I’m afraid she caught me unawares,” Neuvillette admits. He keeps his eyes firmly pinned on the Victrola, admiring the dull lustre of its horn. He knows that if their gazes lock, Wriothesley will guess that he’s not quite telling the truth.
“Oh?” The chair creaks as Wriothesley leans back, tenting his scarred fingers. “Does that mean there will be no ball, then?”
“No, no, of course not. I want it to take place as usual. Fontaine needs it.” The music swells. Neuvillette clears his throat. “I’m afraid my role in the ball is somewhat… unclear. I simply cannot fill Lady Furina’s shoes.” He dares a glance towards his partner.
Wriothesley is looking at him with one of those thick, black eyebrows raised. His knowing grin and the dark stubble covering his jaw might have made him look disreputable, if not for how soft his eyes were.
“Neuvi,” he says softly.
That’s all he needs to say. Neuvillette’s name coming from him sounds like permission; permission for Neuvillette to be honest, to lower his guard, to bare his heart as well as his soul, without fear of reprisal or appearing weak. Between those four walls, in that underwater Fortress, Neuvillette can be himself.
His shoulders slump. “I can’t dance,” he huffs out. “You know how clumsy I am.”
Wriothesley laughs. “I do! Gosh, Neuvi, you’re the most graceful man I’ve ever met - yet you’re somehow such a klutz.” His voice softens as Neuvillette’s cheeks burn. “You will have to lead the opening dance of the ball, is that it? In Lady Furina’s stead?”
Neuvillette feels a little ridiculous. Here he is, getting concerned over a dance while, not a year ago, his precious Fontaine was nearly destroyed.
Before he has time to put into words the complex feelings tugging at his heartstrings, Wriothesley is getting up from his chair, circling his desk, and coming to stand in front of him. For half a second, Neuvillette is distracted by the gorgeous sight of his bare-chested lover. Absent-mindedly, he reaches up to trace a scar that crosses his chest. The narrow strip of skin is hairless and rough under the pad of his finger.
“I’ll teach you how to dance,” Wriothesley says. He’s close enough that his breath stirs strands of Neuvillette’s hair. “On one condition: you have to have the first dance with me.”
It will be scandalous if they do, Neuvillettes thinks, eyelids fluttering close as Wriothesley’s right hand slides around his waist. Normally, Lady Furina kept the first dance for someone special, someone who had done a good deed for Fontaine. Being chosen for that dance meant being singled out for the next year to come.
But hasn’t Wriothesley done enough for Fontaine to warrant that first dance? After all, he’d been building that secret ark of his, deep within the bowls of Meropide. His ship has saved hundreds of people and not once has he sought thankfulness. He doesn’t want to be lauded for it. He doesn’t even want to be associated with it. He wants his priceless contribution to remain hidden.
While Neuvillette understands, a part of him is sorry about this. He thinks Wriothesley’s help warrants being noted. Wriothesley deserves to be thanked for his selfless service to his nation. He deserves recognition.
So perhaps Neuvillette can kill two birds with this ball. He can get Wriothesley the recognition that he deserves and he can preserve Lady Furina’s legacy.
Furthermore, there is nobody else in the whole of Fontaine Neuvillette would rather share a dance with. Who else but Wriothesley would not poke fun at his awkwardness? No, Neuvillette can only trust this man to make sure he doesn’t make a fool of himself at the ball.
At first, Neuvillette doesn’t even realise they’re swaying together. Both of Wriothesley’s hands are on his waist, gently guiding him. They’re barely moving, their feet still firmly planted on the floor. Their eyes are locked. Neuvillette can see every shade of blue in Wriothesley’s irises. It reminds him of the sea, of the colour of translucent water under a bright summer sun.
“Listen to the music,” Wriothesley murmurs, his voice little more than a rumble coming deep from inside his chest. “I’ll guide you.”
Neuvillette obeys. He feels Wriothesley pushing back gently, nudging his foot. He applies the barest of pressure with his palms, and Neuvillette finds he can almost read what the next step is going to be in Wriothesley’s body language. They are perfectly attuned to each other, perfectly in sync. It’s like when they walk side by side, falling into step without having to think about it.
Wriothesley’s face is sober and intense, his lips pulled into a line. His jaw is set. He is serious about this, about teaching. He’s a good teacher, as Neuvillette learned years ago at the beginning of their courtship. It’s easy to simply relax and allow Wriothesley to take the lead, to coach his body and limbs how to move. Neuvillette knows he wouldn’t be able to be this physically close to anyone else. It would leave him too exposed; the intimacy, the touching, the way gazes remained locked.
Neuvillette doesn’t stumble once.
Naturally, as the song ends, they each take a step back. Wriothesley is smiling, his handsome fate lit with pride. Neuvillette feels winded, as if he’s been in a fight. His heart is hammering. His palm tingles where it was pressed against Wriothesley’s, and he is acutely aware of that spot on his hip.
“You are blushing,” Wriothesley teases.
“I love you,” Neuvillette blurts out, to both of their surprise.
And he does. And he wants to show that love to the world. He wants everybody in Fontaine to know about it. He doesn’t mind if Miss Charlotte prints it on the front page of the Steambird . He’s in love and he’s happy and he no longer feels like hiding. He is ready to be open about their relationship. He longs to hold Wriothesley’s hand in public; to lean against him; to be seen having dinners at restaurants or taking long walks on the beach at sunset.
It’s a little selfish – he also longs for people to stop making eyes at Wriothesley and for them to cease their assumptions that he’s single. Neuvillette wants the whole world to know that Wriothesley’s smiles are for him only. That his love has already been captured.
He goes to Wriothesley and deposits a kiss on his lips. “Again,” he says softly. “Let’s dance again.”
Wriothesley grins. He combs his fingers through Neuvillette’s hair, face tender. “Anything for you, my love.” He wraps one of the long white strands around a scraped knuckle. “After all, I’m afraid to say, you need a lot of practice.”
And if Neuvillette is late to work that morning, nobody comments on it.