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Chapter Text

“Monsieur Neuvillette, I flew here on the wings of duty the moment I received the letter.”

A gust of cold wind burst into the Chief Justice’s office along with its source: the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. His coat hung off one shoulder like it was thrown on mid-sprint, the tie was barely convincing anyone it belonged there, his hair looked kissed by frost—and his eyes matched.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Neuvillette lifted his head from the paperwork. “It appears there has been some sort of misunderstanding. I didn’t send you any letter.”

“Exactly,” Wriothesley dropped unceremoniously onto the visitor’s couch, ignoring the raised brow his entrance earned. “That’s what bothers me. The letter from Miss Sedene said you were deeply troubled over a rather difficult case—half of the Twilight Court is neck-deep in it. As it happens, one of the suspect’s very chatty associates just happened to end up in my Fortress. Funny coincidence, don’t you think?”

Wriothesley crossed one leg over the other and gave Neuvillette a cheeky squint. He wasn’t sure if the flutter in his stomach was admiration or sheer terror at his own audacity. Probably both.

“Might I ask how the defendant’s brother, who remained utterly silent during his hearing, suddenly became so talkative under your custody?”

“Must be the charm,” Wriothesley replied smugly. “The files are on the table, and their daddy’s lounging on your couch. Ahem.”

“You haven’t caught a cold, have you?” Neuvillette inquired as he opened the folder Wriothesley brought.

“Terminal, actually,” Wriothesley nodded gravely. “Mortality. People tend to die, you know.”

Neuvillette gave him a long, heavy look before lowering his gaze to the interrogation transcript.

Wriothesley huffed and leaned back on the couch, brain delightfully blank. Forgive me, Archons. That was the best I had.

“Impressive work, Your Grace,” Neuvillette spoke at last. “I’m sure the Twilight Court will appreciate the additional insight. Personally, I commend the artistic effort. The seal sticker of me as a cartoon was… inventive.”

“Sigewinne and I do what we can to stay sane,” Wriothesley shrugged. Wait, she actually included that one? “I call him Sealvillette. Trademark pending.”

Neuvillette, unamused, locked eyes with him.

“Do let Miss Sigewinne know I plan to visit her soon.”

“Might I remind you that all visits to the Fortress go through my office?” If there’s tea involved, Wriothesley expected to be invited.

“I don’t recall that being an official policy.”

“Right. I must’ve forgotten to announce the establishment of my anarcho-tyranny. New policy: I make the rules now. There.”

Neuvillette filed the documents in a terrifyingly large binder and placed it among the others on his shelf.

“It’s been a while since I last visited the Fortress, wouldn’t you say, Your Grace?”

“We noticed. We even hung your portrait in the cafeteria, so no one forgets what you look like.
Between you and me, I don’t think it’s possible to forget. You're painfully attractive.”

Judging by Neuvillette’s twitching eyebrow, painfully referred to Wriothesley himself. Not that he minded.

“Miss Sedene—”
Wait, when did Neuvillette even leave the office?
“—I assure you, I am quite capable of handling this matter without any external assistance. Lady Furina?”

Furina, having failed to become one with the ficus, fluttered to Neuvillette’s side with the grace of someone who had already accepted the failure of stealth. She tugged at his mantle, adjusted the folds of his jabot, and stage-whispered in the least subtle way possible:

“Neuvillette, I beg you—be magnificent. You’ll crush His Grace’s adoring little heart if you’re anything less.”

“If it’s that easy to disappoint him, that love was never worth much to begin with,” Wriothesley chimed in, equally theatrically, from the cracked office door.

For one glorious second, Neuvillette considered closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and summoning a modest rainstorm to deal with this trio of migraine triggers. But alas—he was the Chief Justice of Fontaine. He must remain composed. Even in the face of three separate embodiments of chaos.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” came a gentle reminder from the epicenter of said chaos. “You were going to stop by for tea.”

Neuvillette slowly opened the door to his office, waited for Wriothesley to exit, and—

“I must postpone my visit. My apologies.”
Click.
The lock turned.

“Wait, the door was lockable this whole time?” Furina blinked. “That would’ve made things so much easier. I could’ve just—”

“Left me in there to be sacrificed to the ancient beast?” Wriothesley exclaimed.

“Don’t be dramatic. He’d just drown you.” Furina took a sip of her cocktail. “By the way, when’s the last time you sent Sigewinne proper groceries?”

“That’s on you for getting too close. Around Neuvillette, even milk curdles.”

“Poor thing. What a fate.”

“Love is blind,” Wriothesley sighed. “Blind enough to fall for—”

“He has softened a little over the past five centuries. Give it another couple and he might finally cave.”

“I don’t have a couple of centuries. I’m going to die a virgin.”

“Ugh, don’t say that in front of the children.”

“I am the youngest one here!”

“And where did this child even learn such filth?”

Sigewinne sighed and quietly returned to her desk. These days, Furina and Wriothesley had become entirely too invested in seducing Neuvillette.
Life at the Palais Mermonia was becoming unbearable.

Furina adored Neuvillette with all her heart.
He was her anchor, her steady ground, her most reliable ally.
He accepted her tea invitations with quiet grace, ate her cakes, listened to her complaints and jokes, covered for her absences at court, and stood by her side during meetings with foreign diplomats.

And just like Furina, he was utterly alone.

She would retreat to her chambers and cry beneath the weight of five hundred years of solitude and a prophecy inching ever closer.
He would walk to the sea, lean on his cane, and stand still in the rain, his back unnaturally straight.

One evening, his solitude was interrupted.
Wriothesley, returning from either a mission or a party—hard to tell—was storming through the rain with the air of a man personally wronged by the weather.

“May the entire meteorological bureau and everyone involved rot in the Abyss,” he grumbled, wringing out his soaked coat sleeve.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” came Neuvillette’s quiet greeting, revealing his presence.

“Oh. Evening,” Wriothesley replied, not missing a beat. A flinch would've been too much. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Why are you out here… getting drenched?”

“I’m gathering my thoughts,” Neuvillette answered calmly, entirely unbothered by his soaked clothes.
Then, noticing the state of his companion, he added with a tinge of regret,
“I apologize for the inconvenience the rain has caused you. I suggest returning home and changing into something dry.”

Wriothesley, already stepping onto the lift, shook the water from his hair and gave Neuvillette a long, unreadable look.

“Thanks for the concern. And next time, keep the advice for yourself.”

It might’ve sounded rude—if the note of concern hadn’t slipped through.

The lift began its slow descent, leaving Neuvillette alone once more with the sea and the rain.

“He told Monsieur Neuvillette to keep the advice to himself,” Sedene read out loud from a letter, squinting slightly to make sure she got the wording right. “And now he’s convinced Neuvillette thinks he’s uncouth.”

Furina let out a theatrical groan and slapped her forehead.
“Sigewinne says he’s writing an apology letter and has already spilled an entire teapot on it. Twice.”

“She suspects early-stage paralysis.”

Chapter Text

After surviving the masquerade with a guilty actress in the leading role, Furina decided it was time to live life to the fullest.

And yet, every joyful moment in the world of mortals only reminded her of a lone figure standing by the sea in Fontaine.

Which is why Wriothesley had just walked into the Palais Mermonia, arms full. The only man whose very name could soften Neuvillette’s glacial gaze.

He placed a box of limited-edition tea leaves on the table, artfully decorated with stickers—Sigewinne’s work.
The Melusines adored Wriothesley almost as much as Neuvillette adored the Melusines. Which is to say, a lot.

“Lady Furina, enjoy.” A generous helping of leaves was already on its way to the teapot. “Managed to grab a cake from Débord Hotel too. Hopefully this earns me some points.”

“Just Furina, please,” she waved him off. “One point more, one point less—what matters is that you impress him, not me.”

“Neuvillette clearly has a soft spot for you,” Wriothesley smirked. “I plan to weaponize that.”

“Our mission is to make him happy,” she reminded him, shoving half a slice of cake into her mouth. “Nff...is...it’sh....gud.”

“Perhaps His Grace could invite Monsieur Neuvillette to dinner,” Sedene offered from her corner, unboxing a dessert of her own.

Wriothesley and Furina both turned to stare at her in disapproval.

“Too cliché,” Furina sniffed.
“He’d never agree to dinner with me,” Wriothesley muttered, frowning.

“We need a plan. Something grand. I’ll stage a show at the Opera Epiclese. At the climax, you’ll defeat a line of clockwork meks in glorious combat and throw your heart—and your championship title—at Neuvillette’s feet.”

She punctuated the pitch with a graceful bow, then took a sip of tea and added, deadpan,
“I’ve already reserved front-row seats. Brilliant plan.”

“Absolutely not,” Wriothesley barked. “With all due respect, that idea’s ridiculous.”

“What, it’s not romantic enough for you?” Furina gasped. “Fine. You get injured during the fight. Your dying wish? A kiss from Neuvillette. He loves dramatic storylines.”

“You’re fired.” Wriothesley slapped the table.

“I’m the captain of this ship,” Furina declared, then immediately pouted. “Fine. Come up with your own idea.”

“What if I just gave him tea?”

“He already chokes it down out of politeness.”

“Excuse me?! This is the best tea in Liyue!”

“Then maybe find someone with lower standards!”

“What about a duel at the Pankration arena?”

“At least my version had VIP balcony seating. Not a sweaty mob of shirtless men.”

“We could just go fishing. No men. Just us and some fish.”

“You’re a genius,” Furina burst into applause. Wriothesley, naturally, remained unimpressed.

“Drag him out in the middle of the night to stare at water for five hours. Perfect date.”

“Have you ever been fishing?” he asked, offended.

“Tragically, yes. The only thing that saved me from dying of boredom was my Serenitea Pot within arm’s reach. And I’m telling you, Neuvillette is a man of elegance and silk sheets—not bug bites and worms.”

“Then stop complaining and offer a real suggestion,” he grumbled.

“You shut me down before I could!” she huffed.

The meeting of minds reached an impasse.

“Perhaps His Grace could assist Monsieur Neuvillette with work,” Sedene offered, scooting her empty teacup closer to Wriothesley for a refill. “I could send an official request from the Palais to the Fortress. His Grace would fulfill it. Neuvillette would be grateful.”

Furina and Wriothesley loomed dramatically over Sedene’s desk.

“Clearly, this was your ridiculous idea,” Furina accused. “They could’ve been kissing at the Opera Epiclese by now! And look where we are instead!”

“We could not have been kissing at the Epiclese,” Wriothesley hissed. “I am not—ever—getting on a stage.”

“Excuse me, but your ideas were unhinged,” Sedene replied, arms crossed. “And mine—which was completely reasonable—got ruined by you. Specifically you, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley gasped, scandalized by the betrayal.

“Of course it’s your fault!” Furina jumped in. “You should’ve just brought Neuvillette to interrogate the suspect himself, dragged him into your office, cuffed him to a chair, and demanded his heart in exchange for freedom!”

She paused only to inhale. “Are you even using those handcuffs productively?”

“No, that’s not my point!” Sedene stomped her foot. “And for the record, Monsieur Neuvillette is neither naive nor prudish. He would accept romantic gestures—if someone actually made one!”

“Don’t be absurd,” Furina waved her off. “No sane person would just walk up and say, ‘Ah, Neuvillette, light of my life, I am hopelessly in love with you—take my hand and heart.’”

A polite cough echoed from behind them.

“You are correct, Lady Furina.”

The trio froze.

“No one has ever said to me, ‘Ah, Neuvillette, light of my life, I am hopelessly in love with you—make me your husband.’”

Neuvillette gave them a measured look, let out a soft hum, and casually strolled out of the Palais.

Chapter Text

After the spectacular failure of the "Wriolette Strategy Committee" in the Palais Mermonia, the committee officially entered a period of rest.
Or so Furina told Wriothesley.

She neglected to mention that the break was personal. For him.
The runaway train that was Furina had already departed the station, and only she knew the rails.
The ways of an Archon—former or not—are mysterious.

“I still don’t get why we didn’t invite His Grace,” Sedene mumbled, distracted mid-pastry-selection. “He needs to formally confirm his role in the plan.”

“He’s useless,” Furina declared.

“But you insist he’s the best option for Monsieur Neuvillette?”

“I have no choice,” she threw up her hands. “Everyone else is terrified of Neuvillette. And that one—Celestia save his soul—that duke would steamroll right over Neuvillette’s walls and prejudices without blinking.
Lumine?”

Lumine’s already big eyes widened even more.

“Can you picture anyone kissing Neuvillette on the Opera Epiclese stage? Anyone other than Wriothesley, I mean?”

Lumine looked around desperately for help.

Furina’s obsession with those two was starting to feel... clinical.

And the truth was, Lumine could imagine how Neuvillette, still entirely composed, charging her with high treason and either sentencing her to life in the Fortress or, worse, exiling her from Fontaine.
She’d spend the rest of her days running across Teyvat with Zhongli—dodging the wrath of a certain dragon.

Furina gave up on Lumine and turned her piercing attention to the next victim.

“Clorinde, what about Wriothesley…”

“No clue. I don’t gossip with him about my boss,” Clorinde cut her off, clearly disinterested. She wouldn’t have come at all if Furina hadn’t sneakily titled the meeting ‘Planning Wriothesley’s Birthday Gift.’

She was not here to brainstorm how best to serve the Chief Justice on a silver platter.

“I have to do everything myself,” Furina sighed, offended. “Finish your tea. I’ll find some useful allies.”

Chin high, she stormed off dramatically.

“I liked Paimon,” Clorinde said thoughtfully. “Wriothesley could squish her with one finger.”

Lumine bolted upright in horror—then slumped back down with a sigh.

“At least she’d die happy. Full of cupcakes.”

Wriothesley kicked open the door to his own office and bellowed,
“Sigewinne!!!”

Something crashed upstairs. Perfect. He had an audience.

“Ran into that cupcake-stuffing little flying sellout. Tried to help Madam Hat with her immersive theatre idea. Still chewing the whole time she begged me to go to the Opera Epiclese.
You remember that masterpiece? The one where I nobly harass Neuvillette on stage.

Abyss take me—my bag ripped again. Damn potion vials.”

He nudged the scattered bundles with his boot.
“I’ll pick it all up later. Gonna die of hunger first.”

He stormed up the stairs and tripped on the last step—only to find himself locking eyes not with a pair of big, innocent baby blues, but with a narrow, sharp violet gaze.

Neuvillette was seated behind the envoy’s desk, surrounded by a fortress of paperwork. A cup of tea steamed quietly nearby.

“I have... so many questions,” Wriothesley muttered after a beat.

“Go ahead,” Neuvillette said, tilting his head slightly.

“Did they overthrow you up top? I pledge my undying loyalty to you.
Or did you demote me?
And why is the tea brewed in boiling water? That’s heresy.”

“I can’t read the handwriting, Your Grace,” Neuvillette replied coolly, eyes dropping back to the page.

Wriothesley leaned over the desk with both hands and squinted at the document.

“Interrogation transcript from…”

Neuvillette hooked a finger under Wriothesley’s tie—the one concession to formality in the duke’s entire wardrobe—and pulled him in until there were only inches between them.

“I’d like to hear more about this immersive theatre.
And the harassment.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one getting harassed at work right now,” Wriothesley muttered, clinging to the last shreds of composure.

“Perhaps try the line about the light of your life?”

Wriothesley didn’t bother answering.

The kiss was long, hot, and entirely unhinged.
Followed by a rapid scatter of quicker ones—trying to smother Neuvillette in them—then circling back to his lips, dragged there again by the grip on his tie.

Neuvillette’s hands were soft.
Wriothesley’s touches were cold stormwinds—biting, breathless, reckless.

“Not bad for someone who called himself a dying virgin,” Neuvillette murmured, letting go of the tie and dragging a finger along Wriothesley’s jaw.

“Been studying Yae Miko Publishing.”

“I wasn’t aware such material was delivered to the Fortress.”

“It’s not.”

Wriothesley swung a leg over the desk and perched on the edge, planting both boots on the armrests of Neuvillette’s chair—cutting off any exit.

“Stole a few volumes from your library.”

“A worthwhile investment,” Neuvillette agreed, running both hands down the length of Wriothesley’s boots.

Wriothesley’s pale blue eyes were darkening, drawing Neuvillette in like the Abyss itself.

“I have a request,” Wriothesley said, gripping the edge of the desk as Neuvillette pulled him closer.

“Submit a formal request to the Palais Mermonia. I’ll review it during work hours.”

Neuvillette yanked him off the desk and into his lap without a second’s hesitation.

“This one’s personal,” Wriothesley breathed against his neck.

“Tell our drama director something like…
‘Suck it, Furina.’”