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Wriothesley has habits. Neuvillette notices.
He notices everything, of course. The weight of the rain against the windowpanes. The way silence pools in the corners of a room like still water. The unspoken things. The cracks in people’s voices when they say, I am fine, and the way their heartbeats stammer beneath their ribs.
He is the Chief Justice of Fontaine. It is his duty to notice.
But Wriothesley—Wriothesley is different.
Neuvillette does not mean to observe him the way he does. It happens like the tide, inevitable and rhythmic, a pull he does not resist because it is more trouble to deny it than to simply accept that Wriothesley exists in his periphery, his presence like the lingering scent of bergamot and frost.
And Wriothesley has habits.
Some are small, insignificant things. The way he rolls his sleeves to the elbow, regardless of weather, as if his forearms must constantly be exposed to the world. The way he cracks his knuckles before speaking, as if his words need a physical punctuation. The way he never knocks when entering Neuvillette’s office, but always hesitates in the doorway, a silent request for permission that is never denied.
Some habits are… harder to ignore.
The way Wriothesley lounges when he sits, all sprawling limbs and careless confidence, and the way his hands move when he speaks—expressive, capable hands, scarred at the knuckles, fingertips slightly calloused from years of punching things that needed punching. The way he tilts his head when he listens, like he is actually listening, like he is cataloging every syllable of Neuvillette’s speech and filing it away for later scrutiny.
And the way he smells.
It is a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but Neuvillette is old, and scent is a powerful thing. Wriothesley always smells faintly of ink and iron, of dark tea and cold mornings. And beneath it all, something warm, something vaguely sweet, something that reminds Neuvillette of earth and hearth and the sound of rain hitting cobblestones.
He should not care.
He does.
And so, Neuvillette notices.
It begins in quiet moments.
Wriothesley is a storm, but storms have stillness, too.
Neuvillette sees him in the spaces between words, in the pauses that stretch a fraction too long, in the way he breathes before answering a question. Wriothesley has a habit of thinking before he speaks, but only when it matters—otherwise, he is sharp-tongued and careless, amused by his own audacity, wearing his irreverence like a tailored coat.
But when he speaks to Neuvillette, he considers.
Neuvillette notices that, too.
And then there are the other things. The way Wriothesley leans into Neuvillette’s space without hesitation, the way he smirks but never sneers, the way he teases but never mocks. The way he watches Neuvillette in turn, with a gaze that is too knowing, too steady, too much.
It is… irritating.
It is endearing.
Neuvillette is not accustomed to being watched, not like this. Not with fondness, not with the kind of awareness that strips him bare without him even noticing until it is too late.
Wriothesley is a man of habits.
And so, Neuvillette adapts.
One habit stands out among the rest.
Tea.
Wriothesley drinks it constantly, absurd amounts of it, the kind of consumption that should qualify as an addiction, if not for the fact that he does it with such casual indulgence that it seems almost refined.
But he never finishes his cup.
Neuvillette realizes this one day when Wriothesley leaves a half-empty teacup on the windowsill of his office, forgotten amid their conversation. He picks it up, studying the remnants—dark amber, faintly aromatic, still warm to the touch.
Neuvillette frowns.
“Why do you never finish your tea?”
Wriothesley, already halfway to the door, turns back, raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Your tea,” Neuvillette repeats, lifting the cup in demonstration. “You never finish it.”
“Oh. That.” Wriothesley shrugs. “Guess I get distracted.”
“By what?”
Wriothesley smiles. A slow, lazy thing, edged with something unreadable.
“By you, probably.”
Neuvillette does not drop the teacup. But it is a close thing.
Wriothesley laughs, soft and pleased. “Don’t look so scandalized, Neuvillette. I meant it as a compliment.”
“It did not sound like one.”
“Mm, maybe you just don’t know how to take a compliment.”
Wriothesley has a habit of being insufferable. Neuvillette has a habit of letting him be.
There are other habits, of course.
The way Wriothesley always stands too close, as if personal space is a suggestion rather than a social expectation. The way he hums under his breath when he’s thinking. The way he watches Neuvillette with quiet amusement, as if he knows something Neuvillette does not.
The way he touches.
Oh, yes. That is a habit, too.
Casual, fleeting touches. A hand on the back of Neuvillette’s chair when he leans in to read over his shoulder. A brief brush of fingers when passing him a document. A nudge of his foot beneath the desk when he thinks Neuvillette is being particularly frustrating.
Harmless.
But Neuvillette is not human, and he has never been touched like this before. Not with ease. Not with familiarity. Not with an expectation that it will be received rather than rebuffed.
It is a strange thing, to be known in such a way.
Neuvillette is not certain what to do with it.
And so, he does nothing.
For now.
Wriothesley has habits. Neuvillette notices.
And in time, perhaps, he will learn to understand them.
Perhaps, he will even come to welcome them.
(He already has.)
---
It has become something of a problem.
Not a true problem, of course. Fontaine has true problems—criminal empires lurking beneath its pristine streets, conspiracies woven into the fabric of its highest courts, the constant threat of its own ruin, waiting just beneath the surface of its still waters.
Neuvillette is meant to be concerned with those things.
And yet, he finds himself concerned with Wriothesley instead.
It is ridiculous.
He knows this. He has always known this.
And yet.
It is the way Wriothesley looks at him.
Neuvillette is accustomed to being observed. People watch him in court, waiting for the weight of his judgment. They watch him on the streets, wary and reverent in equal measure. They watch him with fear, with respect, with uncertainty, but never with ease.
Wriothesley does.
He looks at Neuvillette like he is just a man. Just another person, another soul moving through the world, bound by the same rules of gravity and time. He looks at him with amusement, with curiosity, with an affection so casual it unsettles Neuvillette more than fear ever could.
And worse—so much worse—Neuvillette has started looking back.
It is not intentional.
(Perhaps it is.)
It happens in moments, small and insidious. The way Wriothesley stretches in his chair, spine arching like a cat, loose-limbed and utterly at ease. The way he rubs a hand over his jaw when he is thinking, fingers dragging over stubble, a slow and absentminded motion. The way his eyes soften when he looks at Neuvillette—not with deference, not with reverence, but something else, something dangerous.
Neuvillette should not return such a gaze.
And yet.
"You’re staring," Wriothesley says one evening, as if he has only just noticed.
Neuvillette does not startle, but it is a near thing.
They are in his office—Wriothesley has made a habit of occupying it, uninvited but never unwelcome. He is sprawled in a chair near the window, legs stretched out in front of him, the last light of sunset catching in his hair.
Neuvillette is at his desk. His teacup is empty, but his hands are still resting around it.
He had not realized he was staring.
Wriothesley smiles, slow and knowing. "Something on your mind?"
Neuvillette exhales, a quiet thing, and sets his teacup aside. "You assume too much."
"Maybe," Wriothesley agrees easily. "Or maybe I just notice things."
Neuvillette does not rise to the bait. He has noticed things, and that is the problem.
He has noticed how Wriothesley’s voice dips lower when he is tired. How he has a tendency to roll his shoulders when he stands, as if shaking off an old ache. How he always seems to have his back to the door, a habit so ingrained Neuvillette wonders what it means—what it says about his past, what ghosts linger in his periphery.
Neuvillette does not ask. It is not his place.
(It should not be his place.)
But Wriothesley watches him, and Neuvillette watches back, and the weight of it is beginning to feel heavy.
And yet.
It is a quiet sort of intimacy, this—this noticing.
Neuvillette has never been touched in this way. Not physically (though Wriothesley does touch him, too, far more than anyone else ever has), but in this knowing.
There is something raw about it, something unspoken but undeniably present. A recognition. A familiarity.
Neuvillette does not know what to do with it.
Wriothesley, as always, does.
One evening, when the sky is dark and the rain is falling in soft sheets against the windows, Wriothesley reaches out and plucks the empty teacup from Neuvillette’s hands.
"You ever drink anything besides this?"
Neuvillette blinks, thrown slightly by the abruptness. "I see no reason to change what is sufficient."
Wriothesley hums, turning the cup over in his hands. "Sufficient," he repeats, amusement laced through the word. "That’s a sad way to live, Neuvillette."
"It is a practical way to live."
Wriothesley shakes his head, setting the cup down with a quiet click. "You should try something new sometime. Expand your horizons."
"And what would you suggest?"
There is a pause—brief, thoughtful. Then:
"Me."
Neuvillette does not move.
The words settle between them like a weight, like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
Wriothesley does not move either. He just watches, waiting, that same slow smile tugging at his lips, amused and gentle and maddeningly confident.
Neuvillette does not look away.
The word lingers in the space between them, unshaken by the quiet rain against the windows, undisturbed by the still air of Neuvillette’s office. It is not a careless suggestion, nor is it a demand. It is something more dangerous—an invitation.
Neuvillette has been given many things in his long life. Power, deference, silence where others would receive conversation. He has been given respect, expectation, distance.
He has never been given this.
The weight of another’s gaze, steady and knowing. The ease of a smile directed solely at him, one that does not falter under the title of Iudex but rather grows softer in its presence.
The chance to choose something for himself.
Neuvillette does not move.
The world is still, poised on the edge of something vast.
Wriothesley waits.
And waits.
And then, with a sigh that is more patient than disappointed, he pushes back his chair and stands.
"Don’t think too hard about it," he says, voice even. He steps toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back, the light catching in his eyes. "You’ll get wrinkles."
Then he leaves.
Neuvillette releases a breath he did not know he was holding.
---
The rain does not stop.
Neuvillette watches it from his window, hands folded neatly before him, fingers pressed together in thought. He should not dwell. He should not linger on words that were spoken lightly, on a choice that is not his to make.
Except it is.
He has known Wriothesley long enough to recognize the difference between a jest and an offering.
This was not a jest.
Which means Neuvillette has been given something real.
And that—more than the weight of the words, more than the slow, casual confidence with which they were spoken—is what unsettles him most.
He is not accustomed to being offered real things.
The next time he sees Wriothesley, it is not by chance.
He tells himself it is. He tells himself that his presence in the Fortress of Meropide is strictly necessary, that his business with Wriothesley is purely professional, that the slow walk through dim corridors is nothing more than practicality.
It is a very fine lie.
And Wriothesley does not believe it for a second.
"Neuvillette," he greets, standing in the doorway of his office, leaning against the frame like he has all the time in the world. "What an unexpected surprise."
The teasing is expected. The warmth behind it is not.
Neuvillette does not acknowledge it. "I wished to discuss the recent sentencing appeals."
Wriothesley raises an eyebrow. "The ones I already sent you my reports on?"
"Yes."
A beat of silence. Then, a slow, knowing smile.
Neuvillette does not look away.
And yet.
"Alright," Wriothesley says, stepping aside, motioning him in. "Come in, then. Let's discuss these urgent matters of yours."
The discussion is brief.
It is meant to be longer. But Neuvillette is distracted, and Wriothesley knows it, and they both pretend otherwise.
It is a delicate thing, this pretense. A carefully maintained balance, one that has existed between them for some time—long enough for Neuvillette to recognize that it is beginning to fray.
And Wriothesley, as always, is the one to tug at the loose thread.
"You think too much," he says at last, leaning back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. "Not everything has to be a crisis, you know."
Neuvillette does not respond immediately. The words are not dismissive, nor are they careless. They are observant. Pointed.
Me.
The word still lingers in his mind, unspoken but felt, pressing against the edges of his restraint.
"I—" Neuvillette begins, and then stops. He exhales, slow and controlled. "I do not often make personal decisions."
"Maybe you should start," Wriothesley suggests, tipping his head slightly. His voice is quieter now, something softer threading through it. "You're allowed to, you know. Choose something just because you want it."
A simple concept. A foreign one.
Want.
It is not a word Neuvillette has ever considered for himself.
And yet.
And yet.
He is still thinking about this when Wriothesley stands, stretches, and then—without pretense, without hesitation—reaches out.
The touch is brief. Fingertips against Neuvillette’s wrist, barely there, a brush of warmth against cool skin. Not restraint. Not force. Just the shape of a choice.
It is a test.
Neuvillette does not pull away.
Wriothesley smiles, small and satisfied, and lets his fingers linger for just a moment longer before withdrawing.
"See?" he murmurs, amused. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Neuvillette does not answer.
He is still considering the weight of want.
---
The rain does not stop.
Neuvillette stands at the threshold of the Fortress of Meropide, watching the water ripple across the sea. He tells himself he is thinking of cases, of sentences, of the lives that exist in the space between justice and mercy.
He is not.
He is thinking of the warmth of a touch that had barely been a touch at all.
He is thinking of a smile that lingers.
He is thinking of a choice he has not yet made.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet, at last, he does something about it.
It is not a grand decision, not an act that will shake Fontaine's foundations or rewrite the laws that govern its people. It is a small thing, and yet—somehow—it feels vast.
He does not choose quickly. But he does choose.
It begins with a visit.
An unnecessary one.
The excuse is there, flimsy but present—an ongoing case, a matter of jurisdiction between the Fortress of Meropide and the courts above. A topic that could have been resolved through correspondence, but instead, Neuvillette finds himself descending.
He does not ask himself why. He already knows.
And Wriothesley, damn him, knows too.
"Neuvillette," he greets, leaning against his desk, arms folded in an easy sort of patience. "Twice in one week. I’m starting to think you like it down here."
The words are teasing, light, but the weight beneath them is deliberate.
Neuvillette does not rise to the bait.
"I believe we should discuss the pending transfers more thoroughly."
Wriothesley’s eyes narrow—just slightly, just enough for Neuvillette to catch it. Amusement, skepticism.
And something else.
Something sharp.
Something pleased.
"Is that so?"
Neuvillette steps forward, slow and measured. He stops a few paces away, hands folded before him, every inch the composed Iudex. "It is."
A pause.
Then Wriothesley smiles.
"Alright," he says, low and knowing. "Let’s discuss."
They do not discuss.
Not truly. Not in any way that matters.
Oh, the words are there—technicalities, logistics, a conversation that could have been real if either of them had chosen to care. But it is background noise, a script performed out of habit, because neither of them are ready to acknowledge what this really is.
But Neuvillette is not a fool.
He knows what he is doing.
And Wriothesley does too.
"You’re different today," Wriothesley says eventually, once the pretense has gone on long enough.
Neuvillette lifts an eyebrow. "Am I?"
"Yeah." A slow exhale, a tilt of the head. "You're not running from something. Not this time."
The words land heavier than they should. Because they are true.
Neuvillette does not look away.
And yet.
And yet.
He chooses.
The first time he kisses Wriothesley, it is not at all what he expects.
There is no careful deliberation, no weighing of consequence and intention. It is not a planned thing, not something decided upon through logic or necessity.
It is, simply, a choice.
One moment, they are standing there, in the quiet space between conversation and something heavier. The next, Neuvillette is stepping forward, closing that space entirely.
He does not hesitate.
His hand lifts, fingers curling at the collar of Wriothesley’s coat, and then he pulls.
A sound—surprised, breathless—escapes Wriothesley, but he does not resist. If anything, he leans into it, into Neuvillette, into the weight of this choice.
Their lips meet, and it is not a tentative thing.
It is slow, but sure.
Deliberate.
It is warmth against the cool of his own skin, the faint scrape of stubble, the solid press of someone who has waited. Not just for this moment, but for Neuvillette.
He feels it in the way Wriothesley does not rush, in the way he allows Neuvillette to control the pace, the pressure, the space between one breath and the next.
And then—when Neuvillette does not pull away, when he does not question—Wriothesley does respond.
His hands settle at Neuvillette’s waist, firm but not forceful. One slides upward, brushing over the curve of his ribs, his back, fingers tracing the shape of something fragile, something breakable.
Something treasured.
Neuvillette shudders, and that—more than the kiss itself, more than the heat of it, the weight of it—is what undoes him.
He has been touched before. But never like this.
Never like he is precious.
And Wriothesley—damn him—pulls back just enough to smirk. "See?" he murmurs, voice low and edged with something dark and satisfied. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
Neuvillette exhales, shaky, and does the only thing that makes sense.
He kisses him again.
Harder.
It does not end there.
Because of course it doesn’t.
Neuvillette is not inexperienced. But he is also not this. Not familiar with this kind of thing, this heat that builds so naturally, this messy, reckless sort of desire.
And Wriothesley—oh, he knows.
He must, because he takes his time.
His mouth moves from lips to jaw, from jaw to throat, open-mouthed kisses pressed against pale skin, slow enough to feel like a luxury.
And Neuvillette lets him.
He tilts his head back, allows the warmth to seep into him, allows Wriothesley to leave marks—not ones that will last, but ones that will linger.
It is too much.
It is not enough.
"Wriothesley," he says, and he is startled by the sound of it—his own voice, lower than usual, wrecked in a way he does not recognize.
Wriothesley groans.
Neuvillette does not have time to process that before he is pressed back—against the desk, against the solid weight of Wriothesley himself, one knee pushing between his legs, hands bracketing his hips.
He should stop this.
He doesn’t want to.
"You keep surprising me," Wriothesley murmurs, lips brushing against his ear. "Not that I’m complaining."
"Good."
The single word is sharper than intended, but Wriothesley only grins, slow and pleased.
"Good," he echoes, and then his hands tighten—just enough, just barely enough to make Neuvillette inhale, sharp and quiet.
A pause. A consideration. A moment waiting to tip over into something else.
Then Wriothesley leans in, pressing their foreheads together, and breathes.
"Tell me what you want."
Neuvillette exhales.
And then—at last—he chooses.
He said yes.
Or maybe he didn’t say anything at all.
Maybe his answer was in the way he exhaled, shivering at the heat of Wriothesley’s breath against his throat. Maybe it was in the way he tilted his head just so, allowing more space, offering more skin. Maybe it was in the way his hands—usually so still, so careful—curled in the fabric of Wriothesley’s coat, pulling.
Either way, Wriothesley understands.
And he does not hesitate.
Neuvillette is not fragile.
Not in the way that people assume, not in the way that should make Wriothesley careful. He has seen the weight of centuries in those eyes, has felt the power of storms coiled beneath that calm.
And yet—
And yet.
Here, like this, pressed back against the desk, shuddering beneath the slide of Wriothesley’s hands, the arch of his throat bared—he is something delicate.
Not weak. No, never.
But precious.
And Wriothesley has always had a terrible habit of cherishing beautiful things.
It is slow.
Because it has to be.
Because Neuvillette, for all his age, all his wisdom, does not do this—not like this, not easily.
And Wriothesley—oh, Wriothesley—will not rush him.
But fuck, does he want.
He wants in a way he is not sure he has ever wanted before, in a way that feels too big for his chest, too vast for his hands.
And Neuvillette—unfair, impossible Neuvillette—does not even realize what he is doing to him.
Not when he exhales, slow and unsteady, as Wriothesley’s lips trail lower.
Not when his fingers flex, uncertain, against Wriothesley’s shoulder.
Not when he whispers his name—not formally, not in passing, but as something real.
"Wriothesley."
It is not a command. Not a request.
Just his name.
And Wriothesley, for all his strength, for all his control, shatters.
It escalates in increments.
A mouth against a collarbone.
Fingers trailing the edge of fabric.
A breath, a pause, a moment where either of them could pull away, could stop, could choose otherwise.
But neither of them do.
Neuvillette does not stop him.
And Wriothesley—oh, Wriothesley—takes that as the invitation that it is.
He slides his hands lower, over the silk and weight of Neuvillette’s coat, finding the fastenings, testing them.
Neuvillette inhales sharply, but does not stop him.
That, more than anything, is what makes Wriothesley hesitate.
Not because he does not want this. Not because he is unsure.
But because this—this—is Neuvillette.
And Wriothesley has spent too long wanting him to fuck it up now.
He leans back, just enough to meet Neuvillette’s eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asks, quiet, serious.
Neuvillette, to his credit, does not pretend to misunderstand.
He swallows, slow, the movement of his throat almost hypnotic. Then, deliberately, he lifts a hand, finds Wriothesley’s wrist, and presses.
A silent answer.
Go on.
Wriothesley groans.
And then—
Then, he moves.
They do not make it to the bed.
They do not make it past the desk.
It is messy in a way Neuvillette is not used to, in a way that feels entirely too human. Clothes half-undone, hands grasping at whatever they can reach, the edge of the desk digging into the small of his back as Wriothesley devours him.
And Neuvillette—prim, proper Neuvillette—lets him.
No, worse.
He wants it.
Wants the weight of Wriothesley against him, wants the heat of his mouth, wants the way he touches him—like he is something revered.
"Neuvillette," Wriothesley breathes, like a man lost in worship.
Neuvillette shudders.
And when Wriothesley’s fingers slide lower—
When his mouth follows—
When he laughs, dark and breathless, as Neuvillette arches—
It is too much.
It is not enough.
And Neuvillette, for the first time in a long, long time, lets go.
Later, much later, when the heat has faded and the air is thick with the weight of something softer, something real, Wriothesley speaks.
"You're not going to regret this, are you?"
Neuvillette, still pressed against him, still catching his breath, hums.
"Do you think I would?"
Wriothesley hesitates. "No."
"But?"
"But," Wriothesley sighs, "I know you. You think too much."
Neuvillette tilts his head, regarding him with something unreadable. Then, slowly, he lifts a hand, brushes his fingers over Wriothesley’s jaw.
And he says, simply, "I am not thinking now."
Wriothesley groans.
"You’re going to kill me," he mutters.
Neuvillette, to his eternal surprise, laughs.
And Wriothesley, as always, notices.
And cherishes.
---
He wakes to warmth.
This, in itself, is unusual.
Not the temperature—though Fontaine is not known for its sweltering summers—but the sensation of heat pressed against him, wrapped around him. A weight draped over his waist. A breath against his shoulder.
Neuvillette blinks, slow, his mind wading through the last remnants of sleep.
And then he remembers.
The night.
The desk.
The way Wriothesley touched him—like he was something cherished, something wanted. The way Neuvillette let him.
The way he had let himself want back.
He exhales, tilting his head just slightly, and—
Yes.
Wriothesley is still there.
It is strange, how this feels.
Neuvillette has shared beds before.
Out of duty, out of courtesy, out of fleeting, unimportant liaisons where neither party expected to stay once the night had faded.
This is not that.
This is something different.
Something weighty.
Because Wriothesley is not simply there.
He is here.
Still wrapped around him, still sleeping—which is its own absurdity, because Wriothesley is never this still. But now, like this, his breaths are even, his arm heavy across Neuvillette’s stomach, his face pressed somewhere against Neuvillette’s shoulder.
And—most inexplicably—he is smiling.
As if he is still dreaming of him.
Neuvillette stares, as if committing this to memory.
Which, of course, he is.
He could leave.
It would be easy.
Slip out from beneath the weight of Wriothesley’s arm, retrieve his coat, his dignity, return to the Palais Mermonia before the courts notice his absence.
He has done this before.
He has always done this before.
But—
Wriothesley shifts, tightening his hold, pressing impossibly closer.
And murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, "Stay."
Just that.
No argument, no plea. Just—a request.
Neuvillette swallows.
He thinks of duty.
He thinks of the Hydro Archon, of the weight of Fontaine, of the trials and tribulations still waiting beyond these walls.
But he also thinks of this.
Of the heat pressed against his skin.
Of the way Wriothesley had looked at him—like he was something to be treasured.
And—
And Neuvillette has spent centuries putting duty first.
He can allow himself this.
Just for a moment.
Just for this morning.
Just for Wriothesley.
So he exhales, slow.
And stays.
Wriothesley has habits.
Neuvillette notices.
And, perhaps, Neuvillette is beginning to develop habits of his own.