Archive of Our Own

i.

Neuvillette jerks his head up when something hits the table. This wouldn’t have been terrible except for the stack of books sitting by his elbow which, when his arm also moves, get knocked onto the floor.

He watches the catastrophe—pages flying, book covers flailing—without much remorse, feeling mostly annoyed because they’ll all need to be picked up again. The noise draws a few curious looks, but the heavy legal tomes discourage engagement from most sane people even when they’re splayed disastrously across the library carpet. Turning away from the mess—he’ll deal with that in a moment—Neuvillette lets his eyes travel up to the culprit of this disaster: the thermos of tea on the table and the man who’s brought it for him.

Wriothesley at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realize you were napping.”

“I wasn’t,” Neuvillette mutters, though he had been, accidentally. He reaches out to drag the silver thermos closer. “What is it today?”

“Just green tea. I got a new box of leaves last week, figured I’d get your input.”

Nothing about tea from Wriothesley is just anything, but Neuvillette keeps that particular observation to himself. He carefully unscrews the lid to sniff delicately at the liquid within, pleased by the savory, aromatic smell. When he takes a sip, there’s a sweet edge at the end that diffuses across his tongue, lingering after he’s swallowed.

“Honey?” he inquires curiously.

Wriothesley smiles and nods. “A spoonful to offset the bitterness. You like it?”

Neuvillette hums, taking another sip. “I do. Another excellent choice, as always, Wriothesley.”

The man beams at him and Neuvillette pointedly slides his gaze away, fighting the blush trying to bloom in his cheeks. He distracts himself by going to clean up the mess of books, but Wriothesley stops him after setting down his own bag, tidying it himself. Everything is restacked in a much safer, less elbow-prone area of the table.

“I could have done that,” Neuvillette says as Wriothesley takes his usual chair.

“You could’ve,” agrees Wriothesley, ”but I did it first.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Wriothesley has the gall to wink at him and Neuvillette looks away before his ears start to burn, still fighting a losing battle with his blush. If it were anyone but Wriothesley, he’d accuse them of treating him like an invalid—but it’s never like that with Wriothesley.

Ever since Wriothesley first noticed his cane—always within arm’s reach, the dark wood and silver filigree standing out in the otherwise dull colors of the library—he’s somehow struck up the perfect balance of considerate and respectful. He’s never asked Neuvillette directly about it, though Neuvillette’s seen his curiosity; Wriothesley simply accepted it as part of him. Whenever they leave at the same time in the evenings or Neuvillette stands to go searching out a book, Wriothesley doesn’t leap to offer him help like he expects Neuvillette to collapse. He doesn’t stare or try inserting himself into doing whatever Neuvillette needs out of some misguided sense of sparing him the effort. The most Wriothesley ever does is cast a quick glance over Neuvillette—the immediate catch of the eye that notices movement and is drawn to it naturally.

It's refreshing to be treated like a person rather than a person with a cane; a distinction Neuvillette’s come to learn quite well. It makes accepting Wriothesley’s help with things like cleaning up a pile of books much simpler.

“Were you actually asleep when I walked up?” asks Wriothesley, opening his laptop.

“No,” Neuvillette lies smoothly. “I was resting my eyes.”

Wriothesley gives him a skeptical look. “If you’re tired, you should go home. Skipping one night of studying won’t kill you.”

He ignores the unspoken skipping out on sleep will kill you and replies, “I’m perfectly fine, Wriothesley. Besides, you brought me tea. It would be rude to leave without finishing it.”

Wriothesley looks tempted to argue with his logic, but ultimately shakes his head with a bemused smile on his face.

They settle into comfortable silence after that, each distracted by their own work: Wriothesley with his diagrams and scientific equations, Neuvillette with his innumerable stacks of old court cases and law books. Neuvillette empties the thermos slowly, sip by sip, savoring it as much as he can between long paragraphs of legalese. Wriothesley switches between tapping away on his laptop to scrawling notes on his sketches, going from one to the other with ease. It’s hard not to admire his focus, something Neuvillette’s indulged in on more than one occasion. Wriothesley’s very good at multitasking if his study habits are anything to go by, and Neuvillette’s had a fairly inappropriate number of thoughts on how else that could be applied.

He looks back down to the court transcript he’s meant to be reviewing, but the scratch of Wriothesley’s pencil pulls his eyes up again as if magnetized. Wriothesley’s started a new drawing; something smaller than the rest, but more detailed as he gets into it. His brows are furrowed together as he concentrates and it pinches his eyes at the corners. Neuvillette notes how the scar under his left eye goes taut, stretched thin by the contours of his face. He’s never asked about it—or any of Wriothesley’s scars—but he likes it. He’d like to run his thumb across it, feel the catch-drag of risen flesh against his own skin. So much of Wriothesley is still a mystery to him. They aren’t friends, exactly; they’re friendly, but they’ve never met outside of the library. He’s not even seen the other man on campus or had the privilege of sharing a class with him, though that’s more likely due to their separate areas of study than anything else. His knowledge of Wriothesley largely contains two things: he’s a mechanical engineer and he likes tea. These things alone aren’t enough to warrant something so silly as a crush, and yet—

And yet, he’s thought about what it’d be like to witness firsthand Wriothesley’s ritual for the tea he makes daily. He’s imagined Wriothesley reaching across their secluded little table and taking his hand solely for the sake of holding it while they study. Neuvillette’s even thought about Wriothesley in his flat, wandering around and commenting on this thing or that, perusing Neuvillette’s life through the few sentimental things on display in his home. Those thoughts typically lead to others like Wriothesley in his bedroom, on his bed, hovering above Neuvillette’s slighter frame.

He's nearing the dregs of the tea when he realizes he’s been daydreaming more than studying—if it can even be qualified as daydreaming, considering he’s closer to actual sleep than he should be. Neuvillette gives himself a firm shake to fight off the drowsiness, burning his tongue on the last of the tea when he swallows it down. Wriothesley looks up as he slides the now empty thermos across the table.

“Y’know,” he drawls casually, “you don’t have to finish it here.”

Neuvillette blinks at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you took it with you. I can always get the thermos back; we see each other every week.”

“Well—” he hesitates, no argument forthcoming. Wriothesley’s right, but his stomach churns oddly at the idea, his anxiety kicking up his heartrate. Something about having an item of Wriothesley’s, however innocent, feels like a line he shouldn’t cross, but he can’t figure out why. “This is preferable, is it not?”

Wriothesley shrugs one shoulder. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to rush to finish it.”

Neuvillette considers this while Wriothesley tucks the thermos away into his bag. Of course, Wriothesley goes through a lot of preparation for it, so he’d want it rightly appreciated. Does he think Neuvillette drinking it so quickly is insulting? No, no, that’s not it. It does beg the question of how long ago Wriothesley started noticing his haste. Has Wriothesley seen the times Neuvillette’s hurriedly swallowed down the last few mouthfuls whenever Wriothesley’s preparing to leave? Neuvillette tries to be discreet about it, feeling guilty when he can’t finish it fast enough. But if Wriothesley’s been watching so closely, that would mean Wriothesley’s been paying attention to him in the same way Neuvillette’s been watching him, and that can’t be right.

(He’s about seventy-five percent certain Wriothesley’s a straight man, so it’s practically impossible for that sort of attention to be focused on Neuvillette.)

Wriothesley’s simply thinking about all the time he puts into the tea and would rather have Neuvillette savor it. This he can do; an easy rationalization without all the fuss of emotions. Better than going down the spiral of trying to look for meaning where there is none.

“I will keep that in mind for next time,” Neuvillette tells him.

Wriothesley’s answering smile imprints onto the backs of his eyelids, and Neuvillette spends that same sleepless night memorizing the shape of it instead of dreaming.

ii.

“You wear glasses.”

Neuvillette blinks and looks up, tearing his gaze away from the page he’s been trying to read for the past twenty minutes. The words aren’t sticking in his head like they should, so he keeps rereading the same few lines over and over again. It doesn’t help that the font size of this particular book is ridiculously small. He refuses to admit Furina may have had the right idea in forcing him to wear his glasses—he’d be squinting himself blind if he had his contacts in for this.

Wriothesley’s peering down at him holding his usual thermos and with his bag slung over his shoulder, looking mildly bewildered. He’s staring at Neuvillette, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, like he’s witnessed something grandiose and not just Neuvillette without his contacts. Neuvillette glances briefly over his shoulder to be sure, finding nothing extraordinary except library shelves.

“Yes,” he admits, looking back to Wriothesley. “I do, occasionally.”

Wriothesley opens and closes his mouth a few times, clearly at a loss. “I’ve never—I didn’t know.”

“I prefer contact lenses. My… friend hid them all from me this past weekend, however.”

That seems to pull Wriothesley out of whatever stupor he’s in, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “Hid them from you?” he repeats with some amusement.

“She believes I am ruining my eyesight by wearing them too often.”

“Well, are you?”

Neuvillette scowls and turns in his seat, facing his books again. “I am not, but until she returns them or I receive new ones, my glasses will have to do.”

Wriothesley hums in sympathy, rounding the table to sit down and set the thermos between them. “She sounds like either a really good friend or a very bad one.”

“She’s a nuisance, is what she is.”

“So, a good one,” Wriothesley chuckles.

Neuvillette pretends not to hear, reaching out to take the thermos and begin unscrewing the lid. He pushes his glasses up to avoid the excess steam and takes a small sniff—lightly floral, but not pungent; familiar in a way. It isn’t until he takes his first sip he realizes, eyes widening in surprise.

“Where did you get this?” he demands, looking to Wriothesley.

The man grins, far too pleased with himself. “You recognize it?”

“It’s—I told you about this. The lotus tea from my time in Liyue.”

“Bit of a nightmare to find, I gotta admit,” says Wriothesley with a sigh. “I had to go all around the marketplace just to find someone who could tell me who might be selling it, then I was going down all these weird alleyways looking for some hole-in-the-wall shop, and my Liyuen is horrible—”

Neuvillette only half-listens to his story, still dazed. The first time he’d had lotus flower tea was during his abroad year in Liyue Harbor, a fact he’d shared absent-mindedly with Wriothesley some weeks ago and hasn’t thought about since. He’d brought it up when trying to share some detail about himself that might interest Wriothesley. He’s not nearly as well-versed in the various kinds of tea, but he knows enough to explain the differences between Liyue’s and Fontaine’s traditional styles. He hadn’t thought Wriothesley was paying that close attention when he talked about being unable to get anymore from Zhongli, one of the few friends he stayed in contact with after Liyue. Once Zhongli decided to travel to Snezhnaya and stay for a few years, Neuvillette lost his easy supply.

He didn’t think Wriothesley would notice his longing fondness when speaking about it. He really didn’t think the man would go so far as to seek out something Neuvillette mentioned only once in conversation. It sends the butterflies in his stomach into a frenzy, their wings fluttering so wildly he’s left breathless.

“—I was able to get a full box of leaves,” finishes Wriothesley, gesturing now with his pencil. “So, if you want, I can spread it out or use it up over the next few weeks.”

“Ah, sparingly, please.” Neuvillette shakes his head, cradling the thermos between his palms. “It’s—it is a pleasant surprise. Thank you, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley beams at him, and Neuvillette’s forced to blink his eyes like he’s stared at the sun for too long. “You’re welcome,” Wriothesley says warmly.

For the first time, Neuvillette brings the thermos home with him, the lotus tea only half-finished with the firm intent of being savored as long as possible. He pretends not to notice the small, pleased smile on Wriothesley’s face, and tries not to think about Wriothesley wandering around the South Market looking for Liyuen tea, butchering the language and still somehow perfectly charming as he does so.

Neuvillette fails rather spectacularly on both fronts.

iii.

It’s a bad pain day.

It started bad when he opened his eyes, squinting at his ceiling after a few meager hours of sleep that did nothing to combat the day’s he’s gone without. It was still bad after he showered, his hopes of hot water and steam being of aide dashed upon the tile floor of his bathroom. And it stayed bad; each second, minute, and hour of his day punctuated by the ever-present thrum of pain just beneath the skin. Like a bone that’s never quite healed or a bruise that refuses to fade, the ache seeps through his entire body, permeating out from his leg until it’s suffused every inch of tender, sore muscle.

A migraine sits at the back of his skull, huddled and looming like a sick animal. He’s had one since noon, and no amount of prescription painkillers can help him when it’s like this. The migraine is always the call mark of how bad it is. It’s better with the sun gone, far past the horizon and tucked away until the next morning, setting as early as five o’clock in the usual sign of approaching winter. What doesn’t help is the perpetual clouds and drizzling rain that’ve called this day their own, turning everything damp and cold and miserable. Neuvillette’s well-acquainted with this misery since it’s the main reason his leg refuses to cooperate. Autumn is always the worst damned season.

The rain spatters against the library windows in quiet mockery as Neuvillette digs his fingers into his knee, massaging the joint beneath the compression sleeve. He grimaces at the familiar tension as he slowly stretches out his leg. His hip isn’t much better than his knee, and that’s nothing to say of his ankle or the rest of him—his entire body is struggling to compensate for what’s essentially the dull piece of wood that’s become his bad leg. He’d almost prefer the other pain; the sharp, eye-wetting kind where his bones feel like they’re trying to push through his skin at the joints and every movement is like crushed glass ground into his cartilage. If it’d been that kind, he’d have never left his bed.

But then he’d miss his weekly study session with Wriothesley and that is unacceptable. Wriothesley promised to bring the last of the lotus tea tonight, though he’d also promised to brave the South Market to find more. The thought of Wriothesley making the hour-long journey—and sacrificing his limited free time—to get Neuvillette a tea he enjoys is enough to make his heart swell uncomfortably within his chest.

So, he’s dragged himself and his pain to the library to make an effort at studying. Except once he sat down, he realized getting back up again to find the books he needs is a near herculean task and actually, sitting down is a very nice thing to do when his lower back keeps spasming and his spine feels like a steel rod.

Neuvillette heaves a weary sigh as he moves his hand up to his thigh, squeezing the stiff-sore muscle. He’s barely even unpacked his bag; all he managed to dig out were his notes from his dispute resolution class and a pencil. He eyes the pages while debating for the —nth time if he should try getting up to search for books. The legal section isn’t far, after all. He purposefully chose this table ages ago because of its close distance to his area of study. However, the thought of trying to juggle a stack of heavy texts with his cane sounds like a surefire way to end up collapsing within the stacks. On a regular day, he’d be fine, but he’s definitely not having one of those.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, irritably rubbing at his forehead.

“Well, a date first might be nice.”

He startles and whips his head up. Wriothesley stands not five paces away with a familiar smile on his face, hair damp from the rain and his dark curls shimmering faintly under the fluorescent lights. The leather jacket he’s wearing is unfairly taut around his shoulders and fits perfectly around his biceps, obviously well-worn, but also well cared for. Neuvillette swallows while trying not to stare, the word date ringing loudly in his ears.

“You’re horrible,” he says, deflecting. “And late.”

“Only by ten minutes,” counters Wriothesley.

“That’s ten minutes less I have to enjoy your tea. I will be taking it into account for future meetings.”

Wriothesley chuckles, dangling the usual thermos between his fingers and holding it out like a peace offering. “Good thing I brought something a little extra, then.”

Neuvillette takes the thermos with a raised brow. “Something extra?” he echoes.

“If you don’t like it, I’ll find a different way to make up those ten minutes,” Wriothesley assures, and takes the seat directly beside Neuvillette. It’s such an abrupt change in their usual routine, Neuvillette’s barely able to process it before Wriothesley’s taking something out of his bag and setting it on the table next to Neuvillette’s untouched notes. “Consider this my sincerest apologies for being late.”

Neuvillette’s breath hitches.

Encased within a small, plastic container is none other than the beautiful, artfully crafted dessert of a bulle soufflé. The rotund, vibrant fruit skin gleams sunset-orange, perfectly ripe; the delicate egg whites cooked within bubble out the carved open top, pale yellow and trembling faintly with the telltale sponginess of texture. It’s dusted with a light coating of powdered sugar that glitters like frost over the bulle fruit, giving the dessert an air of elegance despite its plastic box. Most Fontainian desserts practically require fine porcelain for presentation, hence the stereotype of the nation’s haughty attitude toward food—but Neuvillette can’t imagine the soufflé looking any better than it does now.

He stares at the container, stunned. “Where—How did you…?”

“It’s no Café Lutece,” Wriothesley hums, “but the one I had was still delicious.”

Neuvillette carefully pulls the box closer, mindful not to jostle the precious cargo. “No café around here serves this,” he murmurs distantly.

“Nope. I had to beg Clorinde to drive me three hours to find the nearest place that does.”

Three hours. Wriothesley went three hours out of the city to get a Fontainian dessert. For Neuvillette.

His throat is unnaturally rough when he asks, “How did it possibly survive a three-hour car ride?”

“Very carefully,” Wriothesley chuckles. “There might have been an intense argument about not going over a certain speed limit.”

Neuvillette traces the hard edge of the lid with his index finger, wanting to crack the seal to get a whiff of the familiar citrus. He resists, albeit barely. Instead, he turns to look at Wriothesley, taking in his satisfied expression. He’d nearly forgotten the man took the seat right beside him, but he finds he doesn’t mind it when he gets to see those blue eyes up close. The scar beneath Wriothesley’s eye is much better defined like this, the faint freckles on his nose more obvious. It’s only a small cluster of them along his bridge, and Neuvillette wants to kiss them.

He doesn’t cry often—in fact, he’d wager he never does unless his leg is the culprit. That doesn’t stop his eyes from stinging faintly as he gazes at Wriothesley, a cloying thickness to his throat. The grueling day he’s had combined with this surprising moment of sincere thoughtfulness is enough to make his chest constrict and his heart stumble through its natural pattern.

“You did not have to do this,” Neuvillette manages, surprised by his own steady tone.

Wriothesley’s face softens, his smile subdued, but no less genuine when he replies, “I wanted to.”

Neuvillette’s forced to look away lest he do something completely stupid like kiss Wriothesley. Because he wants to. Badly. He reminds himself that Wriothesley’s simply being kind and, more importantly, that he’s undoubtedly straight. Reading into gestures like this is a path to certain heartbreak. He’s not going to be played a fool just because he can’t figure out how to like someone he might actually have a chance with—third time is not always the charm, in Neuvillette’s experience.

He clears his throat, forcing down the sticky wad of emotion that’d been trying to crawl out past his teeth. It goes right back to being shoved behind his heart and ignored as he delicately pushes the soufflé to the center of the table for safety.

“Thank you,” Neuvillette sighs, gazing at the dessert longingly. “I’ll be certain to enjoy it later.”

“You could have it now. I brought a spoon.”

He can’t quite hide his grimace, adjusting his leg beneath the table. “I’d rather it not comes back up, if you understand my meaning.”

Wriothesley’s gaze sharpens slightly, roaming over Neuvillette with concern. Neuvillette can’t even drum up his usual anxiety at being observed so closely. He knows what he looks like today: exhausted, in pain, and like every hour of missed sleep is sitting directly on his shoulders. He’d barely even brushed his hair that morning, tying it back in a simple tail rather than one of his usual plaits. His knee throbs in reminder of the past several hours and he bites the inside of his cheek to subdue a wince, though he’s not sure he succeeds.

“I could take you home,” Wriothesley offers tentatively.

Neuvillette shakes his head, glancing to the windows still catching the rain outside. “I would rather wait. The rain is meant to clear up for a short time in an hour, and it’s… easier. To walk without it.”

His cane does a fine job most of the time, but slick concrete and multiple puddles still make for a tricky minefield to pick through without a downpour of rain on top of it. Plus, he’s not exactly at his best, his leg already aching in anticipation of the long journey back to his flat. A walk that normally takes fifteen minutes is likely going to edge closer to thirty. He should’ve brought along his quad-tip cane for the day instead of his usual one, but he’d been in a haze waiting for his meds to kick in and didn’t think about it.

Wriothesley is still looking at him and Neuvillette wonders what he sees; or what he’s looking for. Some reassurance, probably, like most people. A signal that they can wipe their hands of Neuvillette’s disability and pretend like it doesn’t exist. For all the times people have rushed to treat him like a child, there’s plenty others who refuse to acknowledge his bad leg at all, leaving him to struggle in the wake of his own pride when he can’t bring himself to ask for the help he needs. Pride can be such a nuisance, sometimes.

“Hey, you have good handwriting,” Wriothesley says suddenly.

Neuvillette blinks a few times, taken aback. “I suppose that I do. Why?”

Wriothesley starts unearthing pages from his bag, many of them bearing various diagrams Neuvillette couldn’t identify if he tried. “I have all these examples of blueprints I need labeled, but the professor can’t read my writing for shit,” he explains with a laugh. “He keeps threatening to assign someone to me like a scribe or something.”

“That sounds inefficient,” Neuvillette replies, eyeing the stack of papers.

“He doesn’t mean it, obviously, but still. I’ll tell you everything you need to write; I just need your pretty hands to put it all down for me, if you’re willing.”

Your pretty hands. Does Wriothesley look at his hands a lot? Can hands be pretty? He’s never thought about his own hands before, but he’s thought about Wriothesley’s plenty. The first word he’d use to describe Wriothesley’s hands wouldn’t be ‘pretty.’ Probably ‘big’ or ‘wide.’ Perfect for holding and grabbing and wrapping around Neuvillette’s waist to haul him closer. Neuvillette isn’t a small man, but he’d wager Wriothesley could span his entire waist with hands that big.

He shakes his head, mildly flushed and thoroughly distracted. Reaching out, he peels one sketch off the stack to examine it while saying, “I suppose I can help.”

Wriothesley grins. “Thanks, you’re saving me another browbeating.”

“We certainly can’t have that, can we?”

His own ignored notes get put away into his bag—the chances of him actually studying for himself are nonexistent, now—and he takes out one of his good pens to write with. As he’s straightening up again, his leg knocks uncomfortably against the armrest, protesting the bend of his knee as he forces himself out of his more relaxed position. It hadn’t felt relaxing, but the laxity of his muscles had helped him pretend to be in a little less pain. His back locks up briefly, the vertebrae grinding together like gears with their teeth out of alignment, and it’s a trial to force himself to breathe carefully; in through his nose, out through his mouth.

He longs for his cushy armchair at home as the pain slowly passes, leaving him exhausted all over again—or rather deepening the feeling. He’ll need both of his heated blankets tonight and he doubts he’ll be able to totter all the way to his bedroom. His recliner is expressly for such days as this when he can barely make it through his own doorway. Outrageously expensive and the most ridiculous thing he owns, but well worth the investment.

His thoughts—and pain—almost make him forget about Wriothesley. The man doesn’t say anything about Neuvillette’s unnatural stillness, but he must notice it, close as he is. Neuvillette’s usually better at hiding his discomfort from him, though that’s typically the day-to-day aches and pains, not this. He doesn’t expect it when Wriothesley abruptly shoves his chair back.

“Here, put your leg up,” Wriothesley says, patting his lap.

Neuvillette stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“Put your leg up,” he repeats slowly, “on my lap. It’s better when it’s elevated, right?”

“Wriothesley, that’s—”

“—a good idea? Why, thank you, I’m so glad I thought of it.”

Neuvillette scoffs, rolling his eyes at Wriothesley’s playful smirk. He does, however, eye Wriothesley’s open lap, timidly allowing himself to judge the distance. It’s not a bad height, and the cushion of Wriothesley’s thighs would be far more forgiving than the thin padding of the seat. He’d also be touching Wriothesley, however non-intimate the scenario. It’d be awkward, and it’s not about to fix all his problems, but it would be nice; and even if Wriothesley’s just being friendly, why not take whatever scraps he can?

(He’s fucking hopeless, and vows to never have a crush ever again.)

It takes some maneuvering. The most embarrassing part is when Wriothesley reaches across to physically drag Neuvillette closer, chair and all, which makes him blush so deeply he’s still feeling it several minutes later. (Watching Wriothesley put those big arms to use is unfairly hot and Neuvillette fears a heart attack if it happens again.) But aside from that, the position they find is fairly comfortable. The armrests of the library chairs are wide and open, making a sizeable loop in the sides which works to their advantage. Neuvillette’s leg fits through one side to drape across Wriothesley’s lap, his knee supported comfortably by one of Wriothesley’s thighs while his ankle dangles out the opposite armrest loop. They both maintain easy access to the table, and though Wriothesley’s effectively trapped unless Neuvillette moves, it’s not a horrible arrangement.

What it is, is distracting. Horribly so. Wriothesley takes to keeping one hand on Neuvillette’s calf, steadying him. His other occasionally drifts down to cradle Neuvillette’s ankle, a silent check-in Neuvillette responds to by flexing his foot. Wriothesley will smile, squeeze gently with the hand on his calf, and go back to whatever he was doing before one-handed. It does help to have his leg up, but Neuvillette’s concentration still suffers.

Because he’s touching Wriothesley. He’s touching Wriothesley. Have they ever touched before? Not like this; only in fleeting passes of their fingers or that very first handshake the day they met. He hadn’t realized how delightfully warm the man is, heat radiating off of him like a walking furnace. It does wonders for his knee, and that’s nothing to say of how firm and unyielding Wriothesley’s thighs are, filling the seat of the chair to the point of obscenity. Neuvillette catches himself staring multiple times, irrationally jealous of his leg. How nice would it be to put his whole body in Wriothesley’s lap, not just one part of him? Wriothesley could support him easily with those arms of his; hold him against that lovely chest.

His eyes stare uselessly at one of the diagrams in front of him, imagining the weight of Wriothesley’s arm around his waist. The thumb of the hand on his calf is stroking back-and-forth over his pant leg, tucked into the seam of his unbent knee; right where his compression sleeve hugs the joint. Can Wriothesley feel it? Does he care? It’s hardly risqué, but a nervous sweat gathers under Neuvillette’s arms, anyways.

Wriothesley is a straight man, he reminds himself fiercely. He is a straight man, you’re being ridiculous, and you need to relax.

By the time Wriothesley looks up and points out the rain’s stopped, Neuvillette’s managed to calm himself down to something at least resembling normalcy. His handwriting on the sketches isn’t nearly as steady as it should be, but if Wriothesley notices as he puts them away, he doesn’t say anything. When he helps Neuvillette take his leg back down, he leaves him with one last squeeze around the knee, borderline affectionate.

Neuvillette feels those broad fingers around his leg the entire walk home and through every savored bite of the dessert Wriothesley bought for him.

(He’s so, so disgustingly hopeless.)

iv.

He makes the mistake of telling Sedene—or, rather, she forces it out of him when he’s at his weakest. It’s an unfair situation, but Sedene is nothing if not devious. She knows when he’s hiding something from her and isn’t afraid to use any means necessary in getting it out of him.

In this case, she harasses him when he’s ill.

They’re less than a week out from December when he catches whatever flu-like contagion is floating around the law students. There’s nothing quite like a group of future lawyers and attorneys attempting to argue each other down from their point of view while wielding tissues like swords, hacking and coughing their way through feigned cross-examinations. Neuvillette makes it two days before he admits defeat and stays home, curling up in his armchair with all the misery of a person whose pride has taken a beating thanks to their own body’s rebellion. It’s a feeling he’s unfortunately familiar with.

Sedene, of course, notices his absence and promises a delivery of soup and tea once her own classes finish for the day. She uses her key when she arrives, saving Neuvillette the struggle of unearthing himself from the blankets he’s buried himself under. He squints through his glasses with bleary eyes as she bustles through the door wielding plastic bags and enough energy to rival a terrier.

“You’re an awful sick person,” she announces, dumping her load onto the counter.

“Is there any other kind?” he grumbles back.

“There’s the sweet, sleepy kind that don’t ignore their symptoms for two days and let their friends help them sooner.”

“I was fine until this morning.”

“Liar.”

He doesn’t argue with her, reluctantly propping himself up once she brings him a steaming bowl and a spoon. It’s mostly broth with a small scattering of pale green vegetables, made soft in the process of cooking and almost buttery in their melt-on-the-tongue delicacy. The saltiness tingles against his lips and the subtle addition of spice at the end of each bite helps warm him from the inside out, combating the chill from his poor circulation. Sedene sets a thermos of hot tea on the side table for him alongside a fresh glass of water she fills from the kitchen.

Neuvillette does a double-take once he notices the thermos, blinking rapidly. “Sedene,” he calls.

“Yes?” she chirps back far too innocently.

“Where did you get this?”

“Your soup? I stopped by the usual place—”

“The tea, Sedene.”

“Oh!” She appears from where she’d been rustling about in his kitchen, smiling with all the sly conniving of a fox. “I got it from Sigewinne’s friend. Do you know a fellow named Wriothesley? He’s quite the tea connoisseur!”

Neuvillette scowls, looking between her and the thermos. “This is from Wriothesley?”

Sedene nods, smile widening. “He was there when I saw Sigewinne. Got all interested once I said your name; very concerned about you being sick. He made me promise to wait before seeing you so he could hurry home and make the tea for you.” Her eyes glimmer mischievously, her grin downright impish. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

His heart jackrabbits at an unhealthy pace, thumping hard against his ribcage. He’d known Wriothesley was friends with Sigewinne, but he hadn’t considered the connection between Sigewinne and Sedene—and himself. It’s rather foolish of him, but too late to do anything about. Wriothesley knows Sigewinne, she knows Sedene, and Sedene now knows exactly who Neuvillette’s been seeing every Thursday for the past few months. His anxiety goes at odds with the buoyant, elated feeling he gets from knowing Wriothesley went out of his way to make sure Neuvillette received freshly-brewed tea.

He reaches for the thermos without thinking, unscrewing the familiar lid to check the contents with a light sniff like he always does. It’s peppermint, the strong, fragrant scent flooding his nose and even penetrating through his ruined sinuses. There’s a note of honey at the end, a kiss of something sweet, and Neuvillette smiles a little to himself at the familiarity of it. Wriothesley always adds honey to the stronger blends.

Sedene points an accusing finger at him. “I knew it!”

Neuvillette startles, almost spilling tea into his soup. “What?”

“You have a crush. And it’s on Wriothesley.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sedene.”

“You only smile like that when you like someone.”

He reseals the thermos with a delicate sniff, feigning ignorance. “Wriothesley is a friend. That is all,” he assures.

She narrows her eyes at him and folds her arms. “A friend who drops everything to make you tea?”

“He’s very generous.”

“And hot. He’s so your type.”

“You do not get to know ‘my type’ and we aren’t talking about this.”

“We are, and your type is Wriothesley because he’s all big and muscley with those blue eyes—”

Neuvillette sighs, cutting her off with a weary, “He’s straight, Sedene.”

She closes her mouth, stunned into silence. Neuvillette drags a hand over his face and reaches for the orange bottle of painkillers beside the water glass, tipping out one of the pills within. The pain in his leg isn’t bad today, but he feels the beginnings of a migraine pressing up behind his eyes, oddly reassuring in its threat. He’s surprised it didn’t come up sooner what with his head cold and stuffy nose. Sedene is quiet as he swallows down the pill, chasing it with water and some broth after to avoid the chalky taste of it.

“That’s why you haven’t said anything,” she sighs, shaking her head.

“Do not tell Furina,” he says forcefully. “The last thing I need is her meddling with this.”

Sedene abandons whatever task she’d been doing in the kitchen to sit on the couch, folding her hands over her lap. Neuvillette stirs his soup with his spoon in lazy circles and tries not to feel miserable—a nearly impossible task when he needs a tissue every five minutes.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

“You’ve assumed things without proper evidence before, Neuvillette.”

He groans quietly. “Please, spare me the paralegal argument.”

Sedene smiles, gentler this time and more sympathetic. “I just mean you could be wrong. Wriothesley was really concerned about you when I spoke with him.”

“I told you, he’s very kind,” Neuvillette mutters. “And he always makes me tea, so it is not out of the ordinary for him.”

“Does he have a girlfriend or something? Have you asked him?”

“I don’t believe so, but—”

“So, ask him.”

Neuvillette makes a frustrated sound, combing a hand through his hair. He grimaces at the greasy feel of it and Sedene takes pity on him by going to find his hairbrush, disappearing for a few moments into his bathroom. It’s partially strategic, he knows, because she’s too smart for her own damn good and recognizes when he needs a second to think.

Because no, he doesn’t know if Wriothesley has a girlfriend and he’s never really gotten a solid confirmation of sexuality. His original assumption hasn’t changed from seventy-five percent which means there’s still that damnable twenty-five dangling at the other end. Wriothesley could, in theory, be interested in men. Neuvillette’s refused to let himself hope or even imagine it. The idea is too dangerous; it encourages all of the late-night fantasies he’s had about first dates and meetups outside the library and… other clandestine things. If Wriothesley’s interested in men, then maybe he could be interested in Neuvillette.

Only that stirs up his anxiety with a whole slew of fresh worries because what if Wriothesley does swing that way, and he doesn’t find Neuvillette attractive? They’re friendly, but that doesn’t necessarily beget attraction. Neuvillette tried to subtly flirt in those early weeks of their first meeting, but Wriothesley hadn’t ever taken the bait, hence Neuvillette’s growing assumption of the man’s interest toward men or lack thereof. What if all this time Wriothesley’s been letting him down easy? Remaining friends, but being mindful not to allow anything more. He can’t blame Wriothesley for not being attracted to him; he’s not exactly the most desirable man on campus, but it still stings thinking that Wriothesley could be so uninterested.

Sedene returns wielding the hairbrush and Neuvillette turns his back to her when she perches on the cushy armrest of his chair. The slow, methodical motions of her dragging the soft bristles through his hair is comforting, helping lull him towards a calmer frame of mind. His frantic, harried thoughts slink back to their corners as his anxiety ebbs under Sedene’s familiar presence, exhaustion quick to take their place.

“The not knowing is the worst part,” Sedene murmurs kindly, pulling a knot free with her fingers. “If you ask, then you at least know; for better or worse.”

“I know,” Neuvillette mumbles tiredly.

“And if it turns out you’re right and he’s the straightest man ever, it’s his loss. You’re prettier than any girl out there.”

Her firm, no-nonsense tone makes him smile, though it fades as his eyes drift over to the thermos sitting on the side table. He stares at it as he considers, just for a moment, Sedene’s earlier observation: Wriothesley was really concerned about you when I spoke with him.

Could it be so simple? He’s never allowed himself to look too deeply into Wriothesley’s actions lest he give himself false hope, but if he does… All the thermoses of tea, the dessert from three hours away, the teasing he refused to believe could possibly be flirtatious. Ever since that horrible, rainy autumn day where he’d felt tempted to chop off his own leg to escape his pain, Wriothesley’s taken to offering up his lap as a footstool, providing Neuvillette some relief whenever he wants it. Would any friend offer that to him? Would they go to such great lengths?

Neuvillette exhales carefully, wrinkling his nose against the urge to sneeze. He refuses to consider it as anything more than a longshot, but Sedene’s right about the not knowing. Better to find out with one hundred percent certainty than keep pining away like a hopeless fool.

“I’ll ask him next time,” he promises quietly, looking at the thermos.

Sedene doesn’t reply, but she pauses in her brushing to squeeze his shoulder in silent reassurance.

v.

Neuvillette walks into the library with all the feigned confidence of someone in way over their head, but who refuses to acknowledge it.

He’s come earlier than usual specifically to brace himself, setting up all his things at their table and taking out the borrowed thermos. For the first time, it’s not empty on its return trip, filled with a lavender melon tea blend from Inazuma that Neuvillette had to dig out from his cupboard using his cane. It’s not the freshest it could be, but he’s confident he’s made it to the best of his ability. He’s not partial to the pungent, floral taste of it, and he hopes Wriothesley will be able to appreciate it more.

His plan is simple: thank Wriothesley for the peppermint tea, offer him this new blend, and ask if he’d like to visit that little tea shop down in the South Market sometime because oh, they actually have a lot of floral blends like this one and yes, it’s a date, please don’t turn out to be a straight man and say no.

Easy. Straight to the point, no room for error.

Neuvillette tries and fails to focus on his work, his nerves making him too restless to concentrate. He taps his fingers along the table while his thoughts run aground one after the other on the shore of his consciousness, piling up like detritus from the sea.  What if Wriothesley doesn’t like the tea? It should be fine, since Neuvillette can offer the date as an excuse to find a flavor Wriothesley likes. But what if Wriothesley misinterprets his meaning? He’ll have to be explicitly clear, say outright that it’s a date no matter how embarrassing. Did he choose the right clothes for asking someone out? Does his hair look okay plaited like it is? Wriothesley once said his hair looked nice and it’d been braided then, so—

He startles when Wriothesley’s bag hits the table, the man himself grinning widely as he peers down at Neuvillette. “Welcome back,” he greets. “Returned to the land of the living, I see.”

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette takes in a breath, forcing himself to relax. “Thank you. I apologize for missing last week.”

“Don’t worry about it, just glad to see you on your feet. Sedene made it sound horrible.”

“It certainly wasn’t pleasant, but not so dramatic as whatever she told you.”

Wriothesley eyes him with a sly smile. “So, you aren’t the type to curl up in one spot and refuse to move, hell or high water?”

Neuvillette huffs, cheeks warming slightly. “She exaggerates.”

“Hey, no judgement here,” he chuckles, holding up his hands. “That’s probably better than me who tries to sweat it out at the gym.”

Unbidden, the image of a sweaty, breathless Wriothesley pops into his head; one that’s shirtless and flexing while using those plentiful chest and arm muscles. Neuvillette swallows and promptly shoves it away into the lewd recesses of his mind.

Expertly (and not-so-subtly) changing the subject, Neuvillette nudges the thermos into the center of the table, saying, “Thank you for the tea, as well. I thought I might finally return the favor, seeing as you went out of your way for it, this time.”

Wriothesley brightens as he takes a seat, positioned across from Neuvillette rather than beside him as he’s taken to doing lately. He picks up the thermos and, in a mimicry of what Neuvillette so often does, unscrews the lid to peek inside the container. Neuvillette tries not to stare too obviously as the man takes a careful sip, dark eyebrows slowly drifting up his forehead. Surprise? No, appreciation. He takes another swallow before setting the thermos down, his smile lopsided and genuine.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he accuses. “What is this?”

“Lavender melon from Inazuma,” Neuvillette rattles off, preening just a little bit. “Do you like it?”

“It’s delicious. I’ve never had anything from Inazuma.”

There it is. A beautiful opening as if designed by fate itself. Neuvillette’s stomach is a flood of butterflies and his tongue feels too big for his mouth, but it’s too good to let go. The tea shop he’s thinking of stocks a wide selection from Inazuma. They get specialty blends because the owner is from Konda Village and visits their family every year. All he needs to do is open his mouth, and say—

“Wriothesley!”

They both turn, Neuvillette’s teeth clicking as he seals his lips against the question waiting on the tip of his tongue. Walking towards them is a petite blonde woman with a bright smile on her cherub-like face, eyes focused solely on Wriothesley. She’s cute in that way of someone who looks far younger than they actually are; a grown woman with all the benefits of youth. She seems friendly enough, but Neuvillette’s instantly wary as he watches her approach Wriothesley’s side of the table.

“Lynette.” Wriothesley greets her with a smile—different than the ones he gives Neuvillette. Sweeter, gentler. It rankles Neuvillette for some reason when he notices. “And here I thought you avoided the library like a magician’s box.”

She pouts and playfully knocks his bicep with a loose fist once she’s close enough. “Shut up, I come here sometimes.”

“Not enough if I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Ugh, whatever. I need to tell you about Lyney and what he did yesterday, you’re not going to believe—”

The girl starts chattering on about something with a performance and Neuvillette can’t really bring himself to care, too preoccupied with studying every inch of the interaction before him. He’s never seen Lynette before, but she must be involved in Wriothesley’s field of study or else they’ve shared classes at some point. They’re speaking with each other in that familiar way of two people who’ve been friends for a long time, easily bantering back-and-forth while Lynette regales her story. Wriothesley is a good listener and nods along appropriately.

But there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right—and not just that Lynette didn’t see fit to introduce herself to Neuvillette. She stands a little too close to Wriothesley’s chair, her hip leaned up against the table’s edge as she gazes down at him. When Wriothesley makes some witty comment, her laughter is light and tinkling like a music box, sincere while also somewhat staged. Her hand occasionally flicks out to touch his arm when she emphasizes something, and Wriothesley doesn’t flinch once.

Neuvillette’s eyes flick between the two of them, feeling distinctly third-wheeled. He doesn’t care that Wriothesley has friends—that’s a good thing—but this is more than a friendly conversation. No, this is what Neuvillette tried to do months ago and failed at spectacularly because he’s never been good at it in the first place. This is flirting. Lynette is flirting very heavily, and Wriothesley is nothing if not receptive to it.

He can almost hear the sound of all his useless plans being swept down the proverbial river, never to be seen again.

It’s the confirmation Sedene wanted him to get, though it doesn’t make him feel any better. Jealousy creeps up to sit uncomfortably in his chest, sticky and ugly like something gone rotten. He knew this was a possibility. It’s the very thing he convinced himself of for so long and exactly why he’s avoided trying anything serious—but there’d still been a chance. Sedene had reminded him there was a chance, and Neuvillette foolishly believed in the sliver of possibility that Wriothesley would surprise him. Having that hope crushed right in front of his eyes feels like a slap to the face.

Lynette is giggling, one of her hands hovering near her mouth as if to stifle the sound, but really, it only draws attention to her lips. Neuvillette recognizes the gesture because he’s done the exact same thing. Unlike when he’d attempted it, Lynette is having remarkable success as Wriothesley’s eyes flicker across her face in clear admiration.

Neuvillette grips his cane awkwardly, seeking the reassurance of its solidity. He drums his fingers along its length, uncaring how obvious his discontent—not that Wriothesley or Lynette would notice, anyways. They’re too busy mooning over each other like a pair of lovesick romantics. Lynette flicks her head and tucks one side of her little blonde, bob haircut behind one ear. Her hair is of a similar shade to his own, though his is more platinum-white pale to her deeper blonde-silver. Wriothesley must prefer short hair on his partners, a thought which only further sours Neuvillette’s mood.

He’s being ridiculous and he knows it. Comparing himself to Lynette is a sure path to self-flagellation, something he covers well enough in regards to his bad leg without looping in his physical appearance. Lynette isn’t even doing anything wrong; she’s simply chatting with a friend she noticed in passing. Maybe a friend she’s interested in, certainly, but that doesn’t involve Neuvillette in any way. He’s not owed Wriothesley’s attention, and if the man wants to flirt with a woman, then he’s every right to do so. It’d be far more polite if he didn’t do it here, in front of Neuvillette, but that’s beside the point.

His fingers run a little faster over his cane, tapping along the smooth edge of the handle. He discreetly checks his watch and debates packing up his things. The plan is a wash and any hopes of studying were dashed long before he arrived here. What he needs now is an indulgent, hot salt bath and a long conversation with Furina or Sedene—preferably involving wine. He didn’t need any of his pain medication today, so it should be fine.

“Lyney never wants to see the movies I do,” Lynette is saying, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. She’s so obvious, Neuvillette could retch in disgust. “He’s awful. As if romcoms are any better than horror.”

Definitely wine. He’s got a full bottle of an amazing vintage leftover from when Zhongli visited last. Fuck it, maybe he’ll call Zhongli. The time difference should be fine if he calls as soon as he gets home. Maybe if Childe isn’t around, he can convince Zhongli into something less than innocent, too. Or Childe could join in. Neuvillette’s feeling reckless and more than a little unhinged even without the alcohol.

Wriothesley’s chuckling, the scar under his eye thinning out when he smiles, hiding within the contours of his face. Neuvillette hates that he’s noticed it. He’s realizing he hates a lot of things like how Wriothesley’s body is turned toward Lynette, the way his legs are splayed open to give her space as he tilts his face up to meet her eyeline. If he stood up, he’d tower over the girl, the top of her head probably just reaching his collarbone. Does Wriothesley like that sort of size difference? Neuvillette is only a handful of inches under him, shy of six foot whereas Wriothesley crests past it. If he wears his boots, he’s about eye-level with Wriothesley which he’d thought—well, it doesn’t matter what he thought. None of his silly, useless fantasies matter because Wriothesley’s straight.

God, he’s such an idiot.

Neuvillette’s clasping the latch on his satchel when Lynette finally leaves, waving goodbye over her shoulder. Wriothesley’s smiling, looking perfectly content and probably pleased with himself after such a successful flirtation. By the time he seems to remember Neuvillette exists, Neuvillette is bracing himself with his cane and getting to his feet.

“Oh, shit, is it that late already?” asks Wriothesley, hurriedly tapping at his phone to check the time. “I know it’s not our usual time, but—"

“No,” Neuvillette assures smoothly. “I’m just tired this evening. I think I will head out early.”

“Oh, okay.” He starts shuffling his things together, stacking up notes he’d gotten unpacked maybe ten minutes ago. “Here, give me a second. I’ll walk you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wriothesley. Stay here, do your studying.”

Wriothesley looks up at him, but Neuvillette refuses to meet his eyes, slanting his gaze to the shelves beyond Wriothesley’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees the man frown. “It’s snowing,” Wriothesley says hesitantly. “And it’s icy, so I thought—”

“Thought you would hold my hand like a child so I don’t tumble over myself?” he snaps, allowing the familiar indignation to bristle over his skin like armor. “I am perfectly capable of walking myself, ice or not, and I don’t need you coddling me like everyone else does. Perhaps reconsider your ridiculous offers of chivalry before you speak them aloud, Wriothesley.”

He knows without looking he’s landed his mark. Wriothesley’s silence is equal parts stunned and hurt, impossibly loud in the space after Neuvillette’s cruelty. They’re words meant to wound—a skill Neuvillette learned early in life however reticent he is to use it, and one he’s always been unfortunately gifted at. Being a lawyer is all about verbal sparring, and he’s only honed his natural talent since starting university, turning a previously rusty blade into a vicious weapon. He never thought to turn it on Wriothesley, but here they are.

It's completely unfair, especially so when Wriothesley hasn’t done anything wrong, but Neuvillette bites his tongue before it can start wringing out apologies. He’s done the damage he needs to, and hopefully, that’ll provide the necessary distance for him to recover from his stupid crush. Wriothesley will forgive him eventually; once Neuvillette spins together a good enough lie, they’ll move past this like it never even happened. That’s another thing about lawyers: they’re very good liars; to themselves and others.

“Enjoy your date with Lynette,” Neuvillette says stiffly. “She’s obviously quite taken by you.”

He walks away without looking back, leaving the tall, silver thermos sitting on the table in his stead.

He does call Zhongli, but only after he’s consumed far too much wine and his lips are loose enough to spill the entire ordeal without pause. Zhongli listens because he always does, and even the sound of his low, inquisitive hums that prompt Neuvillette into continuing whenever he falters are beyond soothing. An entire continent away and Zhongli’s somehow able to ground Neuvillette with his voice alone, speaking in that calm, lilting Liyue accent. Childe isn’t around, thankfully—or if he was, Zhongli did a fine job of pretending otherwise. Neuvillette stopped caring after he got halfway through the wine bottle.

“For once, I’d like to fall for a man who’s emotionally available,” Neuvillette had grumbled into the phone, wine-flushed and petulant.

Zhongli had hummed softly and said, “Perhaps it is time to change your taste in men.”

It’d been a tease, mostly, but Neuvillette can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Maybe he should take a chance on something different; someone his complete opposite like Childe seems to be for Zhongli. They’re more alike than they appear, but on the surface, it’s practically night and day. Maybe Neuvillette needs that sort of wild, chaotic energy to match his calmer stoicism.

Only every time he tries to imagine it, his mind naturally waltzes right back to thoughts of Wriothesley, comparing him to this imaginary, Childe-adjacent man. He thinks about Wriothesley’s sturdy, reassuring presence at his side; remembers all of the small, intimate considerations Wriothesley’s made for him; of course, he thinks about the tea and the bulle soufflé and all the things he never quite knew how to interpret. He forces himself to look at it all through the lens of Wriothesley’s realized sexuality and feels sick to his stomach.

After his call with Zhongli, it’s late and he’s too wrung-out to have another emotional debriefing with Sedene, so he settles with texting her the abbreviated version. She promises to bring ice cream soon—the dead of winter means nothing to her when it comes to frozen confectionary—and makes him swear to a proper night’s rest. He sends her a picture of himself flicking off the camera from the cocoon of his favorite heated blanket which she deems satisfactory.

His Friday turns out to be blessedly clear of responsibility when a surprise snowstorm sweeps through the city, effectively canceling all classes for the day. It gives him the perfect excuse to stay home all weekend as the snow gathers outside his windows in mountainous heaps. Unfortunately, come Monday, the property manager for his flat hasn’t gotten the sidewalks cleared due to the amount of snow and Neuvillette’s forced to stay in another day—and then another, and another. Tuesday the snow gets moved, but Neuvillette nearly snaps his neck on the ice coating the stairs when his cane slips, so he turns back around. Wednesday is a better attempt, but the cold’s set in to usher out the blizzard. He barely makes it half a block before his leg gives up and so does he, teeth chattering the entire time.

It's Thursday before he even realizes and he already knows he won’t be making it to the library. He’s not sure he’d manage it even if his leg hadn’t been aching, properly fucked up from his failed journey on Wednesday. He regrets what he said to Wriothesley and knows he needs to apologize, but he’s not sure he’s ready to face that particular music yet. How long does it take to get over falling for a straight man, anyways? More than a week, at the least. Especially when that man is Wriothesley.

Neuvillette does his best not to think about him, but it’s hard when he’s starting to go a bit stir-crazy. He’s plenty of groceries and his professors have been understanding over email with his assignments, so he’s had little to occupy his time save for his own thoughts. Sedene helps somewhat with her texts, entertaining him with new gossip from their fellow students, but it’s a bit like reality television and he’s never been very interested in the genre. She promises to stop by Friday with the foretold ice cream she never managed to deliver thanks to the storm, and he’s beyond eager to see another human that isn’t his elderly neighbor.

So eager, in fact, he doesn’t bother to put on proper clothes or even try making himself presentable when he hears the knock on his door. It’s only Sedene; she’s seen him in far worse conditions than a week spent stuck indoors. Neuvillette leaves his cane by the armchair as he limps across the carpet, his knee brace satisfactory enough for the short trip.

“Sedene, my darling,” he says while sliding open the deadbolt, twisting the door handle. “If you do not have pistachio, I will be quite cross with—”

He stops, blinking. Wriothesley—not Sedene—blinks back at him and raises his eyebrows.

“—you,” Neuvillette finishes lamely.

It takes a moment before Wriothesley clears his throat, saying, “Neuvillette.”

“Wriothesley.”

A beat passes, then two.

They’re staring at each other in Neuvillette’s doorway, the silence stifling. There’s snow in Wriothesley’s hair from the wind blowing outside, the flakes dusted over the dark strands like powdered sugar. Neuvillette is in mismatched wool socks and an oversized sweater, the brace around his leg obvious. His hair is messily plaited going on two days unwashed. He’s wearing his glasses, the frames slipping down his nose, and he’s in his underwear because he stopped bothering with pants two days ago. He wonders if he can get away with simply closing the door, but as if he sees it on Neuvillette’s face, Wriothesley takes a step forward to fully block the frame and makes that escape route impossible.

Well, fuck then.

“You’re not Sedene,” Neuvillette finally says.

“No,” Wriothesley agrees, “but she sent me in her stead.”

“She told you where I live.”

“Sigewinne needed her for a project.”

“Ah.”

More silence passes. They stare at each other a little more.

It’s starting to get drafty and Neuvillette’s acutely aware of his own bare legs. Gooseflesh prickles up his thighs the longer he stands there, but he can’t bring himself to move. His only comfort is Wriothesley seems to be in a similar state, unmoving from where he fills up the doorway, snow melting in his hair and a plastic bag dangling from his fingers. Neuvillette chooses to focus on this, looking down at the bag.

“Is that the ice cream?”

Wriothesley nods. “I, uh, did get it. Pistachio, I mean. Sedene made sure.”

“Well, get in here, then. Before it melts.”

Neuvillette steps back to let him through the door, feeling distinctly out of his own body. It’s like he’s watching someone else let Wriothesley into his flat, close the door behind him, flip the deadbolt back in place and politely offer something hot to drink. Wriothesley declines, though he does remove his jacket—that damnable leather one, of course. Neuvillette takes the bag from him to set on the counter and unearth the pints of ice cream, busying himself with stowing them in the freezer. It takes far less time than he’d like and soon, he’s watching Wriothesley peer around his apartment with barely concealed curiosity. Neuvillette leans against the central island to take the weight off his leg and tries not to fidget.

Wriothesley tucks his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, looking devastatingly handsome and casual in the same breath. Neuvillette didn’t realize how badly he missed seeing him. It’s only been a week, and yet it feels like it’s been months, like Wriothesley’s somehow changed in the interim even though he looks exactly the same. Maybe it’s the slight stubble on his jaw, such a rarity that Neuvillette’s only seen it once before. Or it could be how he’s holding himself; a little tense, a little unsure, so unlike his usual confidence. Neuvillette wishes he could draw it out, but he doesn’t know how.

Still peering around the apartment, Wriothesley speaks up first. “You weren’t at the library yesterday.”

“I stayed home,” Neuvillette explains. “I have been at home. The storm made a right mess of things, so I haven’t exactly been able to leave.”

“Your leg?”

“Obviously.”

Wriothesley cracks a small smile, finally glancing over to Neuvillette. “And the cold doesn’t help either, huh?”

Neuvillette shrugs one shoulder. “If you can imagine one of your limbs as a block of wood, perhaps with a saw being constantly put through it, that would be a fair comparison.”

“Sounds fuckin’ awful.”

“Quite.”

They shift on their feet, Wriothesley glancing around the space again while Neuvillette tries to accept the reality of Wriothesley in his home. He’s imagined it so many times, in various different circumstances, and none of them were like this. This awkward, horrid silence. He heaves a sigh, exhaustion sweeping over him like one of the snowdrifts outside. Folding his arms, he sinks his teeth in and rips off the bandage by asking:

“Why are you here, Wriothesley?”

It gets the man to look at him again, blue eyes strangely bright. He sets and re-sets his jaw; tension strung through him like a length of wire about to snap. Neuvillette waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts despite how the blood roars in his own ears. If Wriothesley’s decided what he said is unforgiveable, he’s not sure how well this conversation is about to go.

“I think I deserve an apology,” Wriothesley begins carefully.

Neuvillette nods in agreement—this part, at least, is easy. “Yes, you do. I am sorry for what I said and how I behaved, it was entirely inappropriate and unfair to you. I was…” He pauses, licking his lips. “…tired, that day. It’s no excuse, but I hope you will allow me some grace when it involves my—condition.”

He winces at his own words, drumming his fingers along his bicep. It’s not an outright lie, but using his disability like a crutch for his behavior isn’t his preferred course of action. Wriothesley will see right through it; he only prays the man doesn’t force him into explaining it was actually jealousy that had Neuvillette acting like a teenager in high school. He wants to salvage their friendship, not dash it across the rocks. Talking about how he hated seeing Wriothesley hang on to Lynette’s every word is not something they need to discuss ever. At all.

Wriothesley is studying him, eyes slightly narrowed like he’s looking for something. When his gaze lands on his fingers, Neuvillette stops fidgeting. “Lynette is like a sister to me,” says Wriothesley suddenly. “Her and her brother are both like siblings. Dating one of them would be weird, to say the least.”

Neuvillette blinks, uncertain. “Oh. I apologize for assuming.”

“And I’m not exclusively into women either, for the record.”

It’s like someone’s come around and gut-punched him, leaving him sorely wanting for air. Neuvillette stares at Wriothesley, mouth suddenly dry and tongue useless—the combination of his empty lungs and cottonmouth make it impossible for him to say anything in response. He watches in a dazed silence as Wriothesley takes a tentative step closer, and another. His hands come back out where they clench into loose fists at his sides.

“You assume a lot of things, don’t you, Neuvillette?” asks Wriothesley, edging around the kitchen island. “Kind of a bad trait for a future lawyer.”

“I make educated guesses based on evidence,” he replies faintly.

“And what evidence did you have on me?”

“You…” The answer is none. Nothing concrete, anyways; not until Lynette, or so he thought. Wriothesley never showed interest, never responded to his meager attempts at flirting, so he thought— “You never led me to believe otherwise.”

Wriothesley’s closer now, looking at Neuvillette with those damnable blue eyes. They could touch if he reached his arm out, but he doesn’t dare, twisting his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater. His knee is starting to ache a bit from being on his feet for so long, forever protesting the below freezing temperatures outside. Neuvillette doesn’t take his eyes off Wriothesley.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” It’s a little too harsh to be a tease, Wriothesley’s frustration almost palpable.

“I tried flirting with you,” he blurts out, feeling distinctly cornered. “And I was going to ask you out before she showed up.”

“But you ran away.”

Neuvillette grumbles, “I don’t run anywhere, I assure you,” before saying properly, “It was childish, I admit that, but I was not going to sit there and be a third wheel.”

Wriothesley frowns, placing one of his hands on the counter as he leans in. “Neuvillette, we weren’t even talking about anything important.”

“She was clearly asking you on a date, Wriothesley, do not be obtuse.”

“Lynette is a little hands-on, sure, but—”

“If you are going to come in here and accuse me of something, at least have the decency to admit your own transgressions.”

Wriothesley’s mouth clicks shut and Neuvillette blows out an exasperated breath, sending a few strands of hair fluttering over his forehead. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stem his own irritation. They’re not shouting at each other, at least, which is a meager victory all things considered. Maybe if they were yelling, they could move this along more quickly.

“Okay, fine.” Wriothesley spreads his hands out in an I surrender motion. “I might’ve asked Lynette to come around and flirt a bit to make you jealous. I had no idea that was how you’d react, though.”

Neuvillette scoffs. “A bit? She couldn’t keep her hands off of you for longer than five seconds.”

“Counting, were you?”

“I was not, and that’s not the point, regardless.”

Wriothesley makes an irritated sound, shaking his head. “Look, I know it was stupid, but you’re an impossible guy to read, Neuvillette.”

“So, your best idea—instead of asking me—was to enlist one of your friends into making a scene?” He rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it. “I know you are much smarter than that, Wriothesley.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, since we could’ve avoided all of this if you talked to me first,” he counters.

Neuvillette clenches his jaw, but Wriothesley’s words ring true. If Neuvillette had gotten over his anxiety months ago, this conversation would’ve never been necessary, let alone be happening while he’s half-undressed. Wriothesley’s actions aren’t excusable either, but they at least could’ve been avoided.

“I admit,” Neuvillette begins slowly, “I have made more than few wrongful assumptions during our time together. I apologize, but you cannot blame me for thinking what I saw was anything but genuine. We’ve been friendly towards each other—”

Wriothesley stares at him, incredulous. “’Friendly?’ Neuvillette, you say you tried flirting with me, but don’t realize when someone is trying to flirt with you?”

He scowls, cheeks heating. “When were you possibly flirting with me?”

“I went three hours to get you a damned dessert!”

“I assumed you went for yourself and just happened to think of me in the moment.”

Wriothesley sputters. “I brought you tea every week. I complimented your hair so much and I tried to ask you to meet me outside the library multiple times.”

Had he done that? Neuvillette pauses to scour his memory, flipping through the months in his head trying to find evidence. He remembers a few instances of Wriothesley suggesting they go elsewhere, of exchanging phone numbers—he can’t recall why he’d said no, though he’s a fair guess. His past self probably assumed Wriothesley was just being polite or some such ridiculous thing. To his own anxious mind, Wriothesley would’ve never entertained the idea of flirting with him. It’d have been too good to be true.

“You were hardly obvious,” Neuvillette settles on, feeling mildly indignant.

Wriothesley curses colorfully and drags a hand through his hair. His eyes are pinched at the corners, but a laugh spills out from his lips, a little wild and broken. When he looks back to Neuvillette, his mouth is twisted into a wry smile and he’s very, very close all of a sudden. All he needs to do is round the last little corner and he’ll be right in front of Neuvillette.

“You’re oblivious,” announces Wriothesley, ignoring Neuvillette’s answering frown. “And I’m an idiot. Can we agree on that?”

“I object to that descriptor, actually.”

“I’m going to kiss you unless you tell me no, right now.”

He shuts up, biting his own tongue in his haste to close his mouth. Maybe this isn’t going to end up too far from one of his fantasies about bringing Wriothesley home. A rough start, certainly, but salvageable, perhaps?

His arms are still folded tightly across his chest and Wriothesley reaches out to cradle his elbows, taking the last step into his space. With Wriothesley in his boots, he’s forced to tilt his head up slightly to keep the man’s eyeline, his socked toes curling into the tile floor. He’s surprised he’s not shaking with how fast his heart’s going, galloping around inside his ribcage like a racehorse let loose on its favorite track. Wriothesley lifts one of his hands up to cradle Neuvillette’s chin, and he’s close enough for Neuvillette to feel the warmth of his breath.

Despite how Furina may tease him about being a shut-in, Neuvillette’s had his fair share of sexual—and romantic—dalliances. He knows how to kiss someone, and he knows how to do it well. It’s a skill he likes to think he’s rather good at, forced to learn how to use his mouth for when his body fails him in other ways. Much of it is muscle memory, and normally, he falls into it with relative ease once he’s captured someone’s attention. When Wriothesley kisses him, gentle and chaste and sweet, every ounce of knowledge Neuvillette’s ever had flies out of his head to join the howling winds outside.

One kiss becomes two, and three, and four. Wriothesley’s hand drifts to hold the side of his face and Neuvillette loosens his arms, leaning some of his weight into Wriothesley’s chest. Their lips come together and drift apart slowly, never moving more than a hairsbreadth away before one of them presses back in. The rhythm isn’t unlike the tide in how it ebbs and flows, rolling back in a languid wave and returning just as calmly.

Neuvillette parts his lips first, tilting his chin while lifting his arms up to slide around Wriothesley’s neck. Wriothesley spreads his palm over Neuvillette’s lower back and meets his tongue with his own, swallowing down the soft noise Neuvillette makes when he does.

Kissing Wriothesley is everything he imagined and also infinitely better. His lips are a little chapped from the cold, but the rest of him is warm and solid, the sturdy length of his body perfect for holding up Neuvillette’s slighter frame. He can take some of the weight off his leg without worrying about getting dropped, using Wriothesley as his point of stability rather than the unforgiving marble of the countertop. Neuvillette almost sighs like some smitten fool because of it, stopped only by the lovely distraction of Wriothesley’s tongue in his mouth. He could kiss Wriothesley for hours, he realizes, if not days. Lay him flat on the couch or in Neuvillette’s bed and just do this until they forget how to breathe.

The hand Wriothesley set on his face is sinking into his hair, further messing up his braid, and Neuvillette groans softly when Wriothesley uses it as leverage to adjust the angle of his head. He’s not aroused, not yet, but he’s going to get there very quickly if Wriothesley keeps pulling at his hair. They’re already pressed flush from hip-to-chest and it’d be impossible to miss when he’s only in his underwear.

As if taking advantage of his brief mental distraction, his leg chooses then to throb painfully, making him grunt for an entirely different reason. Wriothesley notices, catching the odd cadence of the sound and moving back. Neuvillette doesn’t let him go far, clutching the back of his neck even as he leans more heavily onto the man.

“My leg,” he mutters, struggling not to grimace. “I’m sorry, I—”

He cuts himself off with a surprised yelp when Wriothesley firmly grabs his hips and hoists him up onto the kitchen island. It’s not the best solution, but, well—it works. The weight is off his leg and his lower back might have some choice things to say later, but temporarily, it’s fine. And having Wriothesley haul him around isn’t half-bad either.

“Just for a bit,” Wriothesley assures, already leaning in again. “I don’t want to stop, yet.”

“Even to move to the living room?”

“Even for that.”

Neuvillette chuckles, grasping at Wriothesley’s shoulders as the man nuzzles under his jaw. “Fine, but for the record, we are not having sex in my kitchen.”

“No sex in the kitchen,” Wriothesley agrees amicably. “I’ve just been waiting for this for too damn long to stop after a few minutes.”

His heart does a funny little skip-jump inside his chest, heat rushing through his cheeks up to his ears. Wriothesley peels back enough to meet Neuvillette’s eyes, and his smile is practically radiant, making Neuvillette’s lungs feel weak. Well-kissed is a good look on him, and Neuvillette vows silently to see it as often as possible.

“We still need to talk,” Neuvillette reminds weakly, just to say it out loud.

Wriothesley nods, cradling Neuvillette’s chin again. “Yeah, but after.”

The callused edge of his thumb drags over Neuvillette’s bottom lip, caressing it. Neuvillette exhales a slow, shaky breath, and nods back. “After,” he agrees. “Now, keep kissing me.”

With a wide, pleased grin, Wriothesley does just that.