Work Text:
Wriothesley turns over to his other side, buries his face in his pillow, and tugs the covers higher. The low buzzing of the Fortress is the same as ever, but the noise of the morning commotion is missing. It’s early still. No point in being awake.
He shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position, and when a loud hiss front he pipes pulls him away from the hazy edge of sleep, he realizes he’s in pain. There is a steady, curling ache in his stomach, like someone kneading their knuckles. He lies there for a moment, his brain deciding what to do with the information, before it supplies him with the idea that maybe last night’s welfare meal has something to do with it. Perhaps an ingredient was spoiled, or the meal wasn’t prepared correctly, or Wriothesley finally developed an allergy to mint.
As unusual as it is for a welfare meal to upset his stomach, it wouldn’t be the first time it happened, and likely not the last either. So he just curls up, and commits to getting a few more hours of shuteye in spite of the pain.
Except, he finds that he can’t. There is a subtle feeling accompanying the pain, like a length of rope slowly twisting tighter and tighter. Every time he starts dozing off, it startles him out of the haze, and after half an hour of tossing and turning he finally accepts defeat. He rolls out of bed with a groan, and hopes that whatever Cuistat has for breakfast will treat him nicer than his dinner did.
That concern flies out of his mind when he goes to the bathroom and finds blood staining his underwear, and after a moment of pure confusion realizes that he is a fucking idiot.
In his defense, it’s been years since this last happened. The injections Sigewinne has been giving him since, what, his second year in the Fortress? They kept this particular bloody issue far away from him, only resurfacing on the occasions when they lowered the dosage, and even then it happened once, maybe twice before everything went back to its usual order of business.
Now, in clean clothes and preparing a much needed cup of tea, he thinks about why this is happening now . It’s been a year and a half since Sigewinne cut down the injections to once a week, so it makes no sense that that’s the cause. Not to mention she’s been away to visit Merusea Village…
Wriothesley carefully puts the hot teapot down, not wanting to spill anything, then buries his face in his hands. Sigewinne’s been gone for two weeks now, and somehow, amidst all the paperwork of rebuilding Fontaine after the flood, he forgot . He forgot that he’s not gotten his injection in almost three weeks.
He is a fucking idiot. He probably deserves this.
He contemplates getting it done himself, right now, but quickly discards the thought. The idea of pushing that needle into his skin, his muscle, deep into his thigh makes him shiver. The idea of having anyone else other than Sigewinne do it makes him nauseous. Yeah, not happening. And besides, it would be of little use now.
It’s not like this will be a recurring thing anyway, he tells himself. Sigewinne will be returning soon, and he can go back to his life of not shedding an organ he never even wanted every four weeks. It will be fine.
He sips his tea that he brew too strong, its bitterness matching his. It’ll be fine.
“You’re not fine.”
Wriothesley glares up at Clorinde, who, sprawled elegantly in the armchair opposite of him, is the perfect picture of indifference. Her hat and shawl rest on the coat hanger in the corner, and dressed down like this she’s somehow even colder than usual. Or maybe Wriothesley is just in his own personal hell at the moment.
“Yes, I am,” he repeats. “I wasn’t aware your job description covered fussing over the Duke for no reason .”
Clorinde lifts her cup to her lips, taking a moment to enjoy the sharp and yet buttery scent of the tea. This one, Wriothesley managed not to ruin. “You must be doing particularly awful, if you’re forgetting the concept of friendship , Wri. You practically reek of misery.”
He could deny that, but it would be a blatant and obvious lie. The painkillers he took with his breakfast weren’t strong enough to deal with his cramps completely, and while they took some of the edge off, they also ran out three hours ago, and Wriothesley, out of respect for Sigewinne, was going to stick to the rule of not mixing pain medication, and wait two more hours until he could take the next dose. He could power through most of his meetings with a straight face and with barely any frowning, but Clorinde knew him too well to notice the tightness around his eyes and lips, and the measured, even rhythm of his breathing.
He’s learned to ignore pain a long, long time ago, but this was always annoyingly different. Something about it made him wince when otherwise he would’ve smiled, and hunch over when he would’ve walked smoothly. He could shake off a broken bone, but during these times he always found himself yearning to curl up underneath his covers.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he mutters as he sips his tea. Clorinde raises a sceptical brow, but says nothing, instead turning back to the papers arranged on Wriothesley’s desk. She’s here on official business, after all; discussing the further supply of aid the Fortress was to provide.
“To wrap everything up; Poisson is almost finished with the reconstructions. According to the Spina di Rosula, they should be done in the next two weeks; we can start redistributing the resources so that they reach the places that suffered less damage, like Lumidouce Harbor.” She tilts her head. “How are the negotiations with the Knave going?”
Wriothesley groans, already dreading the meeting. As cooperative and eager to help as the House of the Hearth has been, and as smoothly as the technical parts of the talks with Lyney have gone, he knows that their usual bickering (if he can call the ruthless and underhanded jabs they trade that) will be more frustrating than fun this time. “She’s been extremely agreeable. I just wish she’d send a more bearable representative.”
“I hear Mister Lyney is the best in that regard.”
“You’re lucky, he actually likes you. Can’t say that about myself.”
“Seems I’m more charming than you after all.”
Wriothesley can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches, and ends up giving up on suppressing his smile as Clorinde smirks at him from behind her cup. Clorinde was a rare visitor; despite her copious amount of free time, she rarely had the reason and the excuse to enter the Fortress, and it would’ve been no good for morale if the Champion Duelist was to prance down the metal halls every week.
They wrap up the meeting soon, papers in order and teacups empty. Wriothesley feels lighter as he watches Clorinde disappear down the stairs of his office, and that lightness accompanies him for the rest of the day.
The next day, the seat across his desk is taken once again, but this time by a much less welcome presence. The lithe form of the magician Lyney is draped across the armrest, legs swinging idly; his ridiculously large top hat is perched on Wriothesley’s desk, taking up far too much space. Lyney barely spares him a glance, instead focusing on the pack of cards he is twirling between his fingers.
“When can we expect the next batch of materials?” Wriothesley loosens his grip on his pen, and draws in a silent breath. He shifted in his seat a minute and a half ago, he needs to stay still for a while longer, no matter how much he’s wishing to ease the ache building in his lower back. The last thing he wants is for Lyney to sniff out that he’s… under the weather.
Cards flutter up into the air, before miraculously gathering into the magician’s palm once again. “Four days, if all goes to plan. Although the roads have been quite treacherous lately; there is only so much to be done about monsters crossing their path.”
Wriothesley nods, and writes the reminder down. He grinds his teeth and doesn’t adjust the way he’s sitting, and thinks thirty more minutes. But when he cracks his neck to do something , those lavender eyes snap to him, and the way they are prying way past Wriothesley’s defences makes him want to end the meeting there and then. Four days is plenty of time. Lyney can come back to discuss any further matters later. Preferably a week from now.
Lyney’s gaze seems to catch onto something, like a cat’s claws snagging on fabric. He looks over Wriothesley and the way he’s holding himself, then at the cup of lemon and ginger tea on his desk, and Wriothesley can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, until they settle into place with a click . But, Lyney doesn’t ask.
Which is somehow worse than if he did.
At least, that’s how Wriothesley feels until Lyney starts talking about the supply chain and manpower again, completely moving past whatever discovery he just made. He performs his regular obnoxious self, but his jabs are softer, and his tricks leave no mess behind. (Unlike that one time he poured a tophat’s worth of glitter all over the office. The place still sparkles, and it’s been spreading to the rest of the Fort.)
When their meeting wraps up, and Lyney is about to leave, he flicks a card into Wriothesley’s face. “You’re age is clearly catching up to you. Did no one ever tell you that you need to stretch when you get old? Your back isn’t getting any younger.”
Wriothesley snarls before he can stop himself, but Lyney just laughs.
“You should retire! The Fortress could use an administrator who’s not this grouchy!” He skips down the stairs before Wriothesley has a chance to respond, the slam of the metal doors cutting his words off. He shuffles in his seat while muttering about locking up a particular fatuus the next time he enters Meropide, and picks up the abandoned card from where it’s resting on top of his paperwork. He is about to throw it away when he notices the drawings on the back.
They are small stick figures, bending into different positions, with numbers and short instructions scrawled next to them. A stretch routine , he realizes, and his anger dies down when he recognizes some of the moves, often used for relieving back pain. The stick figures all have cat ears on them, and Wriothesley wonders if maybe this is Lynette’s routine.
Later, in his bedroom, he tries them out. And when the tightness in his lower back eases, and the pain quiets to something much more ignorable, he decides that maybe Clorinde was right about Lyney’s diplomatic prowess. And that he ought to reconsider jailing him.
The walk up to the Palais Mermonia should be nice, with the warm breeze and the clear skies, a sight Wriothesley so rarely sees. It’s a walk he’s done many times before, a pleasant stroll with all the elevators and such saving the pain of the stairs, the vista of the rest of Fontaine stretching out over the city walls, to the rolling hills of Sumeru and the flat peaks of Chenyu Vale. It should be, by all means, an enjoyable occasion.
Except Wriothesley’s limbs all feel like the lead limbs of a meka, bones heavy like the rocks at the bottom of the sea. The fatigue drenching his very being is one he cannot shake, yet has to endure with a brave face. It shouldn’t be any different from the exhaustion of a long, sleepless night, and yet it is.
He enters the building with the best poker face he can muster, nodding at the staff in greeting. Sedene waves at him as he walks up to Neuvillette’s office. He knocks thrice, and soon enough, that familiar deep voice grants him entry.
Neuvillette is seated at his desk as usual, surrounded by orderly stacks of papers, the entire office carrying the scent of fresh, clean water. Wriothesley envies this cleanliness of him; his office never looks this tidy, no matter how hard he tries. Maybe it’s all the pipework ruining the look. The blue rugs, couches and curtains cast the entire space in a pale shade of aquamarine, making him feel like he’s a creature of the sea peacefully floating underneath the waves, slowly approaching the dragon of the depths.
He forces his usual greeting out. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Neuvillette! I hope your day’s been pleasant.”
“Wriothesley.” the Chief Justice straightens up in his chair. “I can only wish the same.”
Celestia be his judge, Wriothesley tries. He tries to walk his usual saunter, tries to casually drop himself into the armchair set up opposite of the desk, tries to act like nothing’s happening, nothing is wrong. He tries for the amused smirk, face already tired after the first second.
“Never better!” Sweet Focalors, he’s tired . “No thanks to some of the new inmates; it seems there is always one thirsting for trouble. But, that is neither here nor there. Your reports, as requested.” He places the folders on the desk, the usual correspondence between the Fortress and the Court. But Neuvillette is looking at him .
There is the slightest frown on his face; a downward curve to his lips, a small crease between his brows, his eyes narrowed and sweeping over Wriothesley like a wave washing the sandy shore. He notices. Of course he does. Truth be told, Wriothesley would’ve been a little disappointed had he not.
“You are aware that in case of further crimes, any inmate can be brought back to court for further punishment, yes?” Neuvillette takes in his slanted shoulders, the darker-than-usual bags under his eyes. “While I do not wish to breach Meropide’s autonomy, I’m always open to help.”
Disappointed or not, Wriothesley still would’ve liked to keep his exhaustion to himself. He waves a hand dismissively. “No need to worry. As I said, it’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s routine work, really.”
“Routine work that is clearly taking a toll on you. Let me,” Neuvillette reaches for the folders with Meropide’s three-headed-hound seal stamped on them, “look through these now, so that we can wrap up the professional side of this visit presently.”
Wriothesley wants to object, but he knows how difficult it is to argue with the Chief Justice, and just the thought of it makes him want to curl up on one of those pristine blue couches and take a week-long nap. So, he just nods, which somehow is still the wrong thing to do, judging by how the cloud of worry spreads over Neuvillette’s face some more.
In no time, the folders are placed on top of one of the many piles of paperwork, and Neuvillette promptly stands from his desk.
“Would you fancy a cup of tea, perhaps?” He’s already stepping towards the small cupboard that holds the tea set he reserves for special guests. Wriothesley should refuse, he’s here for business. But a cup of tea does sound awfully nice.
“I couldn’t refuse an offer from the Chief Justice, could I?” He smiles, trying to clear the frown from Neuvillette’s face. He doesn’t succeed.
Neuvillette places the tea set on one of the coffee tables. “Not as Chief Justice. Only as your friend.” He hovers over the kettle and the selection of teabags, a moment of doubt not many get to witness. “I’m afraid I will have to leave the preparation to you. I’m still not as adept at it as I should be, and I know your standards are high.”
Archons, maybe the tea isn’t worth it after all. But Wriothesley spies some expensive teas from Liyue on the little tray, some he’s not had the chance to try yet. He reaches for the set. “I trust you can supply the water?”
Few topics light up Neuvillette’s face like this, and Wriothesley goes about the business of preparing the tea while listening to the qualities of various regional waters. It’s soothing, the way the smooth yet passionate chatter fills the empty corners of his mind, and the way his hands are occupied with a familiar task. He lets himself soak in the moment, and later, bask in the new, unfamiliar taste melting across his tongue. Neuvillette seems neutral; he’s never been one for beverages other than water. He clearly shares the joy of the moment with Wriothesley, though.
With their cups empty and conversation topics momentarily drained, Wriothesley finds it is time to leave. He’s already overstayed his welcome, and should be getting back to the paperwork always waiting for him in the Fortress. Neuvillette stands with him.
“I hope this afternoon tea offered a bit of respite.” To his surprise, Wriothesley does feel less sluggish. “While our work lives may separate us, I want you to know that I am always here for you as a friend.”
For the first time in days, Wriothesley finds himself smiling, genuine happiness pulling at the corners of his lips. The worried crease finally disappears from the corner of Neuvillette’s eye. “I know. And thank you.”
The solemn nod he receives is welcome enough.
Sigewinne bursts into his office the moment she steps foot in the Fortress again. Wriothesley barely has time to put his pen down before his vision is overtaken by a flurry of pastel blue and pale pink.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have forgotten, I can’t believe I did!” Bottles and jars are spread over Wriothesley’s desk. “Are you in any pain or discomfort? Any dysphoria? Have you experienced any depressive thoughts? These are all common symptoms of-”
“Sigewinne,” Wriothesley pushes away a bottle containing a suspicious, thick green liquid. ”Sigewinne, I’m fine!. I’m okay, I really am!”
The melusine stops emptying her bag all over Wriothesley’s table, and eyes him suspiciously. It’s a prying gaze he never really managed to stop folding under, but fortunately he’s telling the truth this time. Ignoring a bit of lingering fatigue, not worse than the consequences of a late night spent in the office, Wriothesley can finally deem his week of hell finished. Sigewinne squints at him, clearly in doubt.
“You are?”
“Yes ma’am. Peachy, even!”
The bottomless medicine bag is placed on the ground. Sigewinne glances at the purple shawl forgotten on the coat hanger, the single playing card still out on the desk, the packet of new, expensive liyuen tea on the coffee table. Her eyes twinkle, and suddenly she’s smiling.
“I see you were in good hands. Still, you should visit me in the infirmary tomorrow for a proper checkup! You need to take your health seriously!”
There is no arguing with the Head Nurse about checkups. Wriothesley nods dutifully. “Of course.”
“Good, good. In that case…” Sigewinne puts all of her concoctions back in her bag, and Wriothesley hides a sigh of relief. He did not want to drink a milkshake. “I will see you tomorrow!”
She’s about to prance down the stairs when she stops, and turns back. Wriothesley is expecting some sort of scolding, but instead Sigewinne looks at him with a deep fondness in her eyes; almost relieved. She smiles at him again, and this time it brightens the whole office.
“I really am glad. That you have friends who take care of you. You deserve it.”
And, well, there really isn’t anything Wriothesley could reply to that, is there? So, he watches the pale blue figure exit his office, and considers ignoring the fuzzy, warm feeling in his chest from her words.
But he doesn’t. Because, despite how strange it is to refer to them as his friends ; she isn’t wrong.
And he realizes that this past week could’ve been much, much worse without them.