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In a perfect world, once the prophecy had run its course, life would return to Fontaine.
The skies would brighten with the golden glow of morning. The howling rains that occurred daily would cease into gentle, occasional drizzles. The cities would once again fill with the chatter and laughter of the people.
In the end, only one of the three happened.
The Court of Fontaine’s famous hustle and bustle returned as if nothing had happened, vendors calling out in the streets and light conversation filling an otherwise peaceful air.
But the skies did not close.
Daily howling rains turned into constant, neverending melancholy. The sky wept throughout both dawn and dusk, and everything in between.
Somewhere in the Opera Epiclese, Fontaine’s very own Chief Justice stood in silence and darkness with a gloved hand placed on a window, staring out at the sheets of rain, wondering when the day would come that he would finally be able to breathe.
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After the waters returned to typical sea level, life went on.
Lady Furina vacated the Court of Fontaine within the first five hours, saying something about moving to Belleau to live the life she had always dreamed of, as a human.
Neuvillette supported her. He was happy for her. He really was.
But when Sedene came into his office the next day, holding a pile of records of Lady Furina’s appointments, he wished, selfishly, that she had stayed.
The Hydro Archon had been popular in Fontaine. The vast majority of the people had fought tooth and nail, vying over a single audience with her.
(Humans and their foolish worship of the gods.)
Lady Furina had been booked full for three months, nearly every business hour spent over tea, cake, and conversation with a nervous yet joyful citizen.
When she had left, she hadn’t bothered to cancel those appointments, and no citizen dared to; clinging onto any chance to meet with anyone who could help with their problems, even if they weren’t a god.
As Fontaine’s Iudex, it was the natural progression of events for those appointments to be transferred to Neuvillette.
Furina had made those audiences work simply due to the fact that those were the only things taking up space in her schedule. She had no paperwork to fill out, no cases to sort through, no trials to preside over.
Neuvillette truly envied her.
But alas, those audiences were just another thing he was going to have to juggle.
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Neuvillette had never been a social person. In fact, he was the complete opposite. And it showed.
His first audience with a citizen of Fontaine had been awkward, at best. The lady had initially gushed about how beautiful the Palais Mermonia was, how thankful she was that Neuvillette had accepted her appointment, etcetera, etcetera. But when she had only been met with a stoic gaze and a nod, instead of the flowery prose Furina was famous for, her words had faltered, before tapering into silence.
Neuvillette tried. He really did.
Of course, he listened carefully about the lady’s problem, which turned out to be a rivalry between her and another aristocrat. Despite being entirely uninterested in noble drama, he offered her sound advice and a possible plan of action. She left the meeting a little more subdued, but none the less grateful.
But then, five minutes later, another noblewoman came in, fidgeting with her frilly sleeves nervously, and Neuvillette felt a small part of his soul fade to gray.
By the time the business day was over, he was all but ready to collapse in his chair and nod off. But there was a pile of papers on his desk, and five hundred years of experience was more than enough to teach him that neglecting it would only make his future self want to strangle his present counterpart when he woke up to double the paperwork he was used to.
So he took a deep breath, glanced at the clock on the wall, picked up his quill, and got to work.
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He ended up not finishing the paperwork anyways.
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Lady Furina’s appointments had been scheduled to take place over three months.
Neuvillette, staring solemnly at the records, did the math in his head (a little slower than he would have liked), and realized it would take him at least nine to get through all of them.
He was the only judge in Fontaine, since he didn’t trust novice justices to handle cases, so he had to preside over every trial. That was a fact he had long accepted, and was resigned to.
But the trials took up most of his schedule. Hours and hours spent in the courtroom, eating away at the majority of his time. Not to mention filing cases, running investigations, and signing so many forms his fingers began to cramp up.
Sitting in either the Opera Epiclese or his own office, shuffling through dry papers and writing his name in elaborate cursive over and over again, when he could have had those hours to himself.
Neuvillette scoffed.
Time to himself. What a pathetic concept.
He was the Iudex of Fontaine. The Chief Justice. He had to devote himself to his nation. His duty was to give every hour he had to the people.
But even as the door creaked to signify the next nervous citizen coming to meet him, a little part of him selfishly mourned the freedom he would never have.
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The days blurred into each other, one after the other, colors smearing incomprehensibly until they formed a dull gray.
That gray fog settled beneath Neuvillette’s eyelids like a barrier of mist as far as he could see.
He found himself spacing out more often; staring at a random point on the wall as if it had the answers to the universe. He noticed himself missing keywords or even whole sentences as whoever he was talking to spoke, and having to politely ask them to repeat themselves.
It was like an invisible force pulling at him, weighing him down and dragging his mind away from the present.
Distantly, Neuvillette feared what would happen if he surrendered himself to the fog, if he let himself be swept away by daydreams and echoes. Perhaps it was his fate. A foreshadow of what was no doubt a blind, perfect future.
Then, one day, in a half-conscious haze, his hand slipped. The quill dropped from his fingers, tumbling down towards his arm.
A scratch. Nothing more than an accident, a pull of the sharp tip through his thin shirt, just barely grazing his skin, before the feather fell to the ground.
But it was everything.
A flash of bright, cold clarity cut through the wall of mist blanketing him. Neuvillette blinked; once, twice. He lifted his head from the floor, eyes scanning the room around him.
Lines were sharp again. The corners of his desk, the edges of the shadows on the floor, the very point where two walls met.
Neuvillette stared at the inside of his office for a long, long time, taking in with an almost childish wonder how a simple stinging in his arm could repel a whole mountain of fog.
His eyes traveled down to the inside of his arm. A dark smudge, a mixture of black ink and red blood, shone cleanly on his pale skin where the quill had torn neatly through his shirt sleeve. The cut was small, but it stung deeply, like a prickling beneath his skin.
He glanced back at the jacket he had left on the back of his chair, a rare instance where his office had grown stuffy to the point where he had begun sweating.
Had he left the jacket on, would the quill still have pierced through? Would it have just bounced off harmlessly?
Was it a blessing or a curse?
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The next day, Neuvillette had another audience with a citizen.
But this time, it was different.
The fog still formed when the man came in, smiling awkwardly, but as soon as Neuvillette felt the familiar drag at his thoughts, he pressed his thumb directly against the previous day’s cut from the quill.
Sharp, stinging pain shot through his arm, but the mist dotting the edges of his vision scattered.
That was all that mattered.
Neuvillette made it through the first few audiences without trouble. He responded to all their questions evenly, thought carefully about their concerns, gave them clear and level-headed advice. Whenever the mist threatened to return, he would press firmly on his injury, chasing the fog away with a little bit of pain. Certainly a worthwhile exchange, if you asked him.
However, by the second-to-last appointment, the fog was slowly beginning to crawl back. Either the wound was healing, or Neuvillette was becoming desensitized, or both, because the previously sharp pain dulled to a quick throb, which was nowhere near enough to chase his exhaustion away.
So, once the second-to-last citizen left with a smile and a wave, Neuvillette decided to make good use of the short time period before the final audience of the day.
He took a quill from his desk (an unused, clean one; he wasn’t a fool) and sterilized it momentarily with an alcohol wipe. Then he rolled up his sleeve and lifted it to his left arm, the same one.
As with everything Neuvillette did, the motion was smooth, methodical, and carefully controlled.
It was also over within an instant.
He wiped the blood off the tip of the quill carefully, before doing the same with the beads of red pooling in a line on his forearm, ignoring the fiery sting he received in return. The fog was nowhere to be found, and that was a good thing.
Then he pulled his sleeve back down, adjusted the cuffs, and sat back down at the table just moments before the door opened again.
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If a method worked flawlessly, why should it not be used?
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Somewhere along the line, pressing down on the wound to chase away the fog became instinct.
Whenever so much as the barest bit of exhaustion pulled at his eyelids, Neuvillette found his hand wandering to his arm, thumb moving to find his most recent cut.
He also found himself scratching deeper and deeper, the quill pulling away with its tip smeared with red.
It wasn’t his fault. He truly did not want it. But, courtesy of being a dragon, his wounds healed abnormally fast, and he became desensitized to pain quite quickly.
So he transitioned to using a knife.
It wasn’t a cleaver or anything big like that. Just a small dagger Neuvillette kept on him for self-defense. Although, since he was a catalyst user, it never really saw use. So he changed that.
The knife was likely a better choice anyways. It was sharper, easier to handle than the quill, meaning there was more room for error. It also produced a deep, clean cut with only the first pull, as opposed to the several forceful scratches he would have to do with the quill.
However, one day, a long trial occurred where the fog had taken over halfway through and hadn’t let up. Neuvillette’s most recent wound had likely healed, so pressing on it had only sent a dull prickle through his arm instead of a painful stab.
The trial had been torturous, to say the least. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to stay focused on the accusations flying around the courtroom.
As soon as he got back to his office and locked the door, he fumbled for his knife, feeling like he was going to pass out from exhaustion. The world blurred, his thoughts feeling like they were swimming through molasses.
In a practiced motion, he pressed the blade to his arm and pulled. Hard. Most likely too hard. His fatigue-addled mind had slipped back into the muscle memory of the quill instead of the knife; forceful stabbing instead of a clean, gliding cut.
As usual, the fog cleared with the first sting of pain. Neuvillette pulled back the dagger. It was coated with blood.
He stared at the new, thick line on his arm, suddenly registering how deep the pain went, like a hot poker pressed into his flesh.
When he took a napkin with shaky hands and dabbed at the red sliding down his arm, it kept coming.
Neuvillette cursed, all but running to the first aid cabinet and grabbing a roll of bandages. This was the first time he would actually have to tend to the wound instead of just cleaning it, because the others had just stopped bleeding within a matter of seconds.
Once he had wrapped his forearm in a thin layer of white quickly turning red, he exhaled, stumbling back to his desk to pull his coat over himself.
He gave himself only a minute to slump his head against the back of his seat and grit his teeth through the burn in his arm, before fixing his posture and reaching for the first of many stacks of paperwork.
Next time, he promised himself, I will be more prudent.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
The next day, Neuvillette had a different kind of appointment. One that he actually looked forward to.
His biweekly tea meetings with the Duke of Meropide were always pleasant, no matter what was discussed. Somehow, Wriothesley managed to hold a captivating conversation at all times, whether it was about finances, metalworking, or more personal matters like Sedene and Sigewinne’s antics.
And thankfully, that was the only meeting Neuvilette had today.
When Wriothesley came into the office with a smile and a wave, Neuvillette’s head was fog-clear. Quite a rarity these days.
“Have a seat,” he offered, waving to one of the couches at their tea table. “I will be back with the tea in a minute.”
And so, their meeting commenced.
It went as usual. Some conversation about funding for Meropide, a suggestion for an enriched security system, a concern brought up about transportation. Then they transitioned to other topics. The incoming rainy season. A new establishment that sold purified water from Mondstadt. A cute little sticker Neuvillette noticed clinging to Wriothesley’s right gauntlet, which the other quickly peeled away with a scoff and a slightly reddened face.
The tea soon ran out, as expected. After all, Wriothesley was an avid fan of Earl Gray.
Neuvillette noticed his empty cup and quickly offered to refill the kettle, taking it off the table swiftly before the other even had a chance to decline.
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Neuvillette looked tired.
That was the first thing Wriothesley noticed when he stepped into the Chief Justice’s office. It wasn’t that Neuvillette was moving slower, or speaking sluggishly, or anything of the sort. He seemed perfectly fine, in fact; his enunciation perfect as always.
But Wriothesley caught a glimpse of Neuvillette’s eyes when the other was bringing the tea over, likely unaware he was looking.
Those lavender eyes, just for that moment, had dimmed with deep-seated exhaustion.
But it was gone in an instant. The very next moment, Neuvillette was setting down the kettle with an impassive face and sitting down with legs crossed and hands folded in his lap, immaculate as always.
Wriothesley decided not to think too hard about it. Surely he was just tired from whatever Chief Justices did.
The meeting went on in relative comfort, amiable words exchanged in the peace and quiet of Neuvillette’s office.
Then the tea ran out, and the Iudex quickly went to refill the kettle.
Wriothesley tried not to watch. He really did.
But when the other man turned around, kettle full, and nearly dropped it, alarm bells began ringing in the Duke’s head.
Neuvillette was by no means weak. He was the Chief Justice, the Iudex of Fontaine, and most likely not human (although there wasn’t really a way to prove that). He was someone who had pushed an entire wall of primordial seawater and forcefully shoved it back into the ocean.
People like him didn’t falter at little things like kettles.
Wriothesley narrowed his eyes, taking in with a slight sense of foreboding how Neuvillette halted for a second, seemingly taking in a moment to adjust and recover.
Was he injured? And if he was, from what? There hadn’t been any conflicts anywhere violent enough to get the Chief Justice injured ever since the prophecy had failed.
“Are you alright?” Wriothesley found himself asking as Neuvillette sat back down, noticing as he set the kettle on the table with a little more care than necessary. There had to be something wrong; it was a kettle, for archon’s sake, not a fifty-pound weight.
Neuvillette nodded, moving to fill the teacups. Wriothesley watched carefully, noting with a frown how his left arm seemed to shake, even though it was the one holding the cup and not the kettle.
“I am quite fine,” the other said after that was done, leaning back. “Thank you for your concern.”
Wriothesley hesitated, mouth opening slightly, before snapping shut. Neuvillette wasn’t stupid; if he had an injury, he would surely have someone tend to it.
He pushed the image of the Chief Justice’s trembling arm away. It wasn’t his place.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
Regretfully, the meeting ended much sooner than Neuvillette would have liked. Wriothesley left around noon, explaining that he had to perform routine maintenance on one of Meropide’s critical systems.
“Goodbye,” Neuvillette offered, holding the door for the Duke. “See you next week?”
Wriothesley nodded and stepped out of the office. The door swung shut, but not before Neuvillette felt the sensation of sharp, ice-blue eyes scan him over once more.
It seemed he had somehow let his exhaustion show through to the other man, despite his best attempts to hide it. How… unfortunate.
Neuvillette sighed, running a hand down his face as he all but stumbled back to his desk. The tea meeting hadn’t drained him in the same way that the audiences did, but he was still tired nonetheless.
He slumped back into his chair for a moment, ignoring how his instincts screamed to sit up and fix his posture. His eyes fluttered shut and a ragged breath left his lips.
Get up, he mentally tried. You have work to do.
But he was so, so tired. His eyelids seemed heavier than lead, and he couldn’t physically muster up the strength to reach for another stack of paperwork.
Maybe he could rest his eyes for just a little bit…
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Thunder rumbled.
Neuvillette’s eyes shot open as he startled forwards, discombobulated.
A long moment passed as he blinked a couple times, waiting for his vision to focus so he could remember where he was.
Then the blurry lines of his office came into view, and a cold hand curled around his gut.
He had fallen asleep, hadn’t he?
Neuvillette groaned, burying his head into his hands, mentally running through possible ways to rewind time.
He glanced at the clock. It showed late morning, which…? Hadn’t the tea meeting ended at noon? That had to mean—
He cursed. He had slept for nearly an entire day.
With a sense of dread, Neuvillette turned his chair to face his desk. As expected, yesterday’s paperwork was still there. Three foot-tall stacks, arranged neatly at the side of his desk.
No. No no no.
He was supposed to do all of those yesterday, because it was one of the rare days where his entire afternoon had been clear.
Outside, rain began to fall. First a few droplets, then a few more; the sky turning dark with roiling clouds. Neuvillette stared at the stacks of paperwork, eyes wide and breathing shaky, gut twisting with the distinct feeling of time slipping through his fingers like sand.
He shouldn’t have let himself fall asleep. He was Fontaine’s Chief Justice; he couldn’t just go taking afternoon naps like some kind of house cat.
Regret pooled in the pit of Neuvillette’s stomach, sour guilt bubbling up in the back of his throat.
What was he, if not the Chief Justice? What was he, if he couldn’t fulfill his duties to the people?
Before he knew it, he was reaching for his pocket in a motion that was almost too practiced.
The knife glinted under the dim, storm-shrouded light.
It carved a deep, wine-red line in his skin. Then another. One more, just for good measure. And perhaps a bit further—
Thunder clapped.
Neuvillette dropped the dagger, the clattering of metal on the wooden floor like an ice bath of cold clarity to his senses.
His entire arm was drenched in red.
Outside, a dam burst. The sky opened, sheets of rain slamming down against the Palais Mermonia’s rooftop, wind howling and thunder booming.
He stared at it for a long, long moment, vision swimming in some combination of pain and guilt, before reaching for the first aid cabinet.
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Neuvillette did not sleep that night.
He spent it hunched over his desk in candlelight, singing form after form until his hand seized with cramps.
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Somehow, the fog worsened over the next few days, thickening from a misty veil to a pure wall of endless gray.
Words on files blurred in and out of focus. He found himself nearly nodding off during audiences, and whenever he stood to deliver verdicts or call for order during trials, the world seemed to spin around him.
Neuvillette blamed it on the paperwork. Missing one of his least busy days had taken a heavy hit on his workload, forcing him to have to finish at least double the papers every day.
On the flip side, however, his newest wounds were the deepest he had ever made them. In fact, while changing the bandages, he had caught a glimpse of pale, waxy tissue peeking out through red blood.
That meant that even the slightest brush of his thumb against the area was enough to completely dissipate the fog at an instant.
It also sent a fiery, unbearable streak of pain up his arm. But that was the price to pay.
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Soon, the weekend came, which meant it was time for another tea meeting.
Normally, Neuvillette genuinely looked forward to them. There was nothing he enjoyed more than sharing conversation with Wriothesley.
But that morning, he woke up with heavy eyes and fuzzy thoughts, and immediately knew it was going to be a bad day.
(Weren’t they all bad nowadays?)
However, Neuvillette was nothing if not a good host, so he greeted Wriothesley at the door of his office with an amiable nod and a gesture towards the couches. “Have a seat.”
He turned to get the tea set, and immediately felt the other’s eyes settle on his back, searching. Scrutinizing.
But when he turned back around, Wriothesley was unbuttoning his coat, gaze nowhere near him. Strange.
Neuvillette set the kettle down and sat on the couch, careful to fold his hands in such a way where his injuries wouldn’t rub against his sides.
And thus, the meeting commenced as it always did.
Except Neuvillette couldn’t focus on a single word Wriothesley said.
It was akin to the sensation of being underwater. His sight was distorted, the words were muffled, and every thought felt like trying to swim to a surface that never came within reach.
“—so there’s an inventor here at Meropide who wants to improve the ferry system between the Opera Epiclese and the Fortress,” Wriothesley started, his words faraway despite his body only being a meter off.
Neuvillette barely suppressed a frown, hand moving on autopilot to brush against his cuts.
“She says she’s found an alternative fuel source for the ferries so they don’t use up as much fossil fuels, and they won’t pollute the water as much.”
With no lack of displeasure, the Chief Justice noted that touching the wounds didn’t hurt as much as he remembered. Was he already healing? Curse his dragon physiology.
“We could likely implement the new fuel source in a week or two, as long as I can get the permits from the Palais…”
Neuvillette pressed down on the cuts experimentally, instantly relieved at the sharp stab of pain that went up his arm, fanning the fog outwards a little.
“...”
He pushed a bit harder, curling his fingers slightly to dig his nails into the wounds, relishing in the pain that scattered the rest of the mist clouding his senses—
“...Neuvillette? What the fuck are you doing?”
He froze. The fog shattered into a million grains of fine dust, leaving only cold dread at the sound of Wriothesley’s voice.
Silence hung, suspended in the air, like the blade of a guillotine.
Suddenly, Neuvillette was hyper-aware of the sharp tang of blood wafting through the office. And judging by the faint alarm flashing in ice-blue eyes, Wriothesley sensed it too.
“You’re injured,” the Duke stated not as a question, his voice neither accusatory nor gentle. “Where? Have you got it treated yet?”
Neuvillette shifted in his seat, unwilling to look the other man in the eye. “Yes, I… am wounded. But I have treated it.”
“Where?” Wriothesley repeated, thwarting his attempts to dodge that particular question. “It's on your arm, isn’t it?”
“...Yes, it is,” he admitted, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into his cuts again. “But please, do not worry yourself,” he added for emphasis. “The wounds are treated and they will heal soon.”
Wriothesley shook his head, standing up to walk over to him. “They won’t heal if you actively scratch them,” he countered, moving to sit next to him on the couch and reaching for his wrist. Neuvillette flinched away on pure instinct, pulling back automatically.
There was another long beat of quiet as the Duke’s eyes went from his arm, to his face, then back down to his arm.
“What hurt you?” Wriothesley asked softly, voice a tad bit hushed, yet somehow laced with a hint of danger; as if preparing to hunt down whatever he thought had injured the Chief Justice.
(How ironic.)
Neuvillette looked away. Lies weren’t feasible; Wriothesley wasn’t stupid, and despite living in an underwater fortress, he was likely aware that Fontaine had been peaceful ever since the prophecy had passed.
“An accident,” he decided.
Both of them fell into silence once more, Neuvillette fighting the urge to scratch at his cuts again, and Wriothesley’s eyes narrowing, clearly noticing the deliberate vagueness of his explanation.
“...May I see?” The latter asked after several quiet seconds.
The former shifted in his seat a little, knowing full well he could not comply with that request. “The injury has been bandaged. There is no reason for concern,” he tried, attempting to dodge a direct answer.
Wriothesley shook his head. “If I can smell blood from across the table, it needs to be wrapped again. You probably reopened the wounds with that scratching.”
The Duke reached out again, and before Neuvillette could react (he blamed his slow reflexes on the exhaustion), he took his hand in a careful yet unyielding grip. But, surprisingly, he didn’t move to roll up his sleeve like another person would have done in the same situation.
“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley said gently, his voice softening into something terrifyingly close to a plea. The Duke of Meropide would never plead for something unless he truly meant it. “May I at least help you re-dress it?”
Neuvillette closed his eyes. He considered pulling his hand away, but… Wriothesley wasn’t making any movements without permission. He was a respectful man, not the type of person to violate boundaries like that.
Plus, the weight of his hand on top of Neuvillette’s was heavy and warm. It almost felt safe, akin to a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years.
He sighed, long and heavy— not out of exasperation, but rather weariness.
It was fairly obvious what had inflicted his wounds, so he couldn’t let anyone see them. He had to remain strong for the people of Fontaine.
“I can do that myself, Wriothesley.”
Silence again. Rain started to fall lightly, pattering against and sliding down the windows. The sunlight outside dimmed as clouds began to gather.
“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley repeated, and oh heavens, he sounded this close to begging. “Why aren’t you letting me see? Why are you— avoiding this? I don’t understand.”
He let go of Neuvillette, who tried not to miss the feeling of his warm, calloused hand.
“You’re seriously wounded, to the point where I can smell the blood. But why are you scratching at your injury? Surely you—” he broke off, unwilling to say the words Neuvillette could practically hear. Surely you know better than that.
“I don’t understand,” Wriothesley said again, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “There’s no reason for you to hide an injury, not when I can already tell. So why—?”
The Chief Justice opened his eyes to stare silently at the ground, suddenly aware of a thousand-pound weight straining down on his shoulders. He was tired; so tired. Every one of his limbs felt like pure lead.
“Please, Neuvillette.” The Duke’s hand came back to his wrist. “Whatever it is you’re hiding… you shouldn’t be.”
Wriothesley’s fingers slipped under Neuvillette’s sleeve cuff, but didn’t move further— more like a question than an intentful motion.
Neuvillette’s eyelids slid shut again.
“Wriothesley…”
What would he think when he saw the bandages, the blood, the cuts marring his skin? Would he be shocked? Scornful? Disappointed, or maybe even disgusted? Would he begin to resent him for his weakness? For his lack of devotion to the people?
The other man slowly began pulling Neuvillette’s sleeve up, giving him every chance to stop him.
He didn’t.
He should have, but he didn’t.
He was just so… tired. Even as his mind screamed to run, to hide, his heart lay dormant in his chest, begging for even the slightest respite.
Wriothesley rolled his sleeve up to the crook of his elbow, revealing bandages practically drenched with much more blood than Neuvillette had expected to see once he opened his eyes. The Duke frowned, concern etched into every wrinkle of his brow, before beginning to peel said bandages away.
Neuvillette turned his head away, chest seizing up as the rain began to hammer down more insistently. His fingers twitched in pain as the cool air met his wounds and—
A sharp intake of breath, as Wriothesley’s eyes landed on line after line of firm, deep, deliberate cuts.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled as the last hints of blue sky vanished behind deep, roiling clouds.
The silence stretched on for something akin to a millenium. Neuvillette set his gaze on a random point on the wall, not daring to look the Duke in his eyes. Fearing what he would find there.
“You…” Wriothesley finally breathed, and he sounded so heartbroken that tears sprang to Neuvillette’s eyes.
Was this how it ended? Had the other man’s perception of the Chief Justice been so completely and utterly destroyed that it had left him shattered by the revelation of his weakness?
Neuvillette felt something wet slide down his cheek. His hand felt too heavy to wipe it away.
Are you angry? He wanted to ask. Are you disappointed in me? Are you disgusted by my uselessness?
Do you hate me? He wanted to say. Please don’t hate me.
Instead, he only managed to choke out, “I’m sorry.”
“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley whispered, his voice sounding so wet and broken. Was that how he felt? So horrified by this reality? Completely shaken by the falseness of his entire view on the great Chief Justice who was in reality just a useless, weak—
“—Come here.”
Neuvillette looked up, startled.
Wriothesley, sitting on the other end of the couch, was crying too, eyes glistening with tears barely held back. And despite everything, his arms were open, offering an embrace when he should have been shouting and cursing.
One heartbeat passed. Two.
Then Neuvillette was all but melting into Wriothesley’s arms, muffling his sobs into the crook of the other’s neck, gripping the back of his coat like a lifeline.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
“Why?”
Wriothesley asked the inevitable question fifteen minutes later, once Neuvillette’s violent sobs had finally tapered out into soft, muffled hiccups, and once he finally had let go of the Duke.
“Why did you do this to yourself?” He asked, thumb brushing over his inner forearm, which was now lined with fresh, thicker bandages. “I’m not mad. I just sincerely want to know.”
Neuvillette swallowed, staring down at the floor.
He had already spilled virtually all his secrets already. He supposed one more wouldn’t hurt.
So he told Wriothesley about Furina’s audiences. Tried to describe the fog clouding his senses as best as he could, and explained how effectively pain chased it away. Recalled how he had lost control one day after losing out on over ten hours of potential work time.
The other man listened quietly and attentively, frowning every so often but not speaking; likely hearing something he didn’t like but choosing not to bring it up yet. But when Neuvillette handed him a physical copy of his schedule, that set him off.
“Neuvi, what the actual fuck??” Wriothesley demanded, staring at the paper with no lack of horror flashing in his eyes. “How are you supposed to fit five audiences, two investigation meetings, and a stack of paperwork, along with an entire long ass trial in one day?! This is downright fucking inhumane— ONLY FOUR HOURS TO SLEEP?!?!”
Neuvillette laughed nervously, running his hand through his hair. “Well, I’m sure it's fairly obvious I am not entirely human. I only need around half the sleep you get.”
Wriothesley shook his head, looking downright affronted by his schedule. “Well, that— if that’s the case, how many hours did you get a night prior to the whole audiences shit?”
“...Seven and a half?”
“See!” The other man exclaimed, slamming the schedule down on the table. “You do need sleep. No wonder you’re so fucking tired!”
There was a long moment in which Wriothesley went through several breathing exercises to calm himself down. Neuvillette only chuckled, slightly wary yet able to tell the other was mostly just letting off some steam.
Still, the Duke was most likely correct. Now that Neuvillette thought about it, a good part of his exhaustion was just an overwhelming urge to sleep.
“Okay, that’s it.” Wriothesley stood up and headed to the light switches, flicking all of them down, which instantly dropped Neuvillette’s entire office into shadow, save for a few lamps. “I’m going to have a long discussion with Sedene, and when I come back, you better be asleep.”
“You— Wriothesley, there’s no need—”
Neuvillette’s voice faltered away as the door clicked shut.
The quiet of his office, now dim and cozy with warm lamplight, was oddly… peaceful, instead of the suffocating environment he had come to know over the past days.
He stood up from his seat on the couch slowly, glancing back at the door.
Well. It wouldn’t hurt to get a nap. He was still exhausted anyways, and now that there was no one there to keep him awake, his eyelids were beginning to droop.
Neuvillette headed to his quarters through a connection room to his office, exhaling softly.
He would’ve expected a confrontation like this, where one of his darkest secrets was brought to daylight, to be stressful. Yet strangely, he was calm, almost relaxed, despite having just sobbed uncontrollably into Wriothesley’s arms less than an hour ago.
He removed his coat and boots, but couldn’t muster up the arm strength to change. Ah, whatever.
Neuvillette fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Outside, the rain morphed into a soft drizzle, the sun beginning to shine through thin clouds.
Finally, Fontaine’s Chief Justice could breathe.