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Wriothesley still recalls with perfect clarity the first time he met the Chief Justice. It was his oath ceremony, when he went to the Maison Gestion with all the Gestionnaires. They lined up single file facing the center of the room, like a procession of prisoners before a gallows. Wriothesley felt wildly out of place. He was not a Gestionnaire. He was to be the Warden. No one wanted to look him in the eye.
No one, that is, until the Chief Justice entered.
He stalked down the middle of their orderly line, staring each recruit down as he went. Wriothesley stood a little straighter, watching his every move. Then, at the end of the line, the Chief Justice came to a stop.
“You have all sworn your loyalty,” he declared. “Your loyalty to Fontaine. Your loyalty to me.” His heels clicked against the polished floor. “Do not break it.”
Then, he approached Wriothesley, last in line. Wriothesley didn’t look at him. He knelt. Knelt before his Chief Justice, before his ruler. The Chief Justice drew his sword. Wriothesley knew better than to fear for his life, but his pulse sped regardless. The sword’s touch against his shoulders was gentle, but cold, nearly making him shiver. Wriothesley had once dismissed such ceremonies as pointless, but as the sword’s frigid touch blessed him, he understood.
“Rise,” said Neuvillette, the Chief Justice, and Wriothesley, the Warden, did.
When he lifted his eyes, Neuvillette was looking back. Wriothesley held eye contact, paralyzed, until the Chief Justice moved on to the next recruit. He was not quite sure he was breathing.
***
These days, Wriothesley laughs to think of it. Neuvillette had once left him in awe, left him speechless. Now the only thing that leaves him speechless about Neuvillette is how shitty his handwriting is.
Of course, he hasn’t actually seen Neuvillette since his oath ceremony. But six months of serving him, of reading his handwriting, would leave anyone a bit disillusioned. Naturally, he knows better by now. Naturally, Neuvillette wouldn’t leave him petrified again. The mere thought would be hilarious, Wriothesley thinks. Fucking hilarious.
The pep talk proves useless, though, when a knock sounds at his door. Wriothesley practically jumps. He takes a moment to check his reflection, fix his hair, ensure his mouth is a perfect straight line and his eyeliner is in place. Then, he pretends that his heart rate has not skyrocketed as he opens the door.
“Hello,” says Neuvillette. He is dressed the same as always. His hair is exactly in place. He looks like a portrait of a man, a bit too perfect.
Wriothesley, remembering his etiquette, bows. “Chief Justice,” he says, low. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You may rise.”
He does. Neuvillette is not much taller than him, but he’s imposing enough to feel like he towers.
“As you know, I am here to ensure my Warden is doing his job properly.” Neuvillette gestures toward his desk, to the chairs and the piles of paperwork. “Please, do sit.”
Wriothesley frowns, but sits. He fights the urge to rearrange everything on his desk, to make it more presentable. “Chief Justice,” he says, “you must understand, usually I’m the one doing the interrogating.”
“This is not an interrogation. This is a discussion.”
It is very much not, Wriothesley thinks, if the adrenaline fog in his brain is any indication. He hasn’t felt this stressed since… well, he doesn’t know, really. He doesn’t want to lose this job. He doesn’t want to feel that cold sword at his throat. “You are my Chief Justice. How can two people of such different standing simply discuss ?” he asks, half-mocking.
But Neuvillette seems unaffected by the malice. “Is that how you see it?” he asks, perfectly neutral. He tilts his head slightly, a mockery of innocent curiosity. “That you are worth so much less than I?”
The clock ticks. Wriothesley stays silent.
“You are very important,” says Neuvillette quietly. His eyes are startlingly clear. Wriothesley wonders if drowning would feel like this. “You are half of justice.”
Wriothesley doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he had a cup of tea, if only for something to do with his hands.
“A verdict can only go so far,” Neuvillette admits. “I can sentence the guilty, but you, you are the one who administers justice.”
“You’re too kind,” he says, even though the words feel cruel. “I swore to serve you, didn’t I?”
“And you abide by your oath. It is admirable.”
From the shift in his eyes, Wriothesley half-thinks Neuvillette is going to draw his sword. But instead, he stands from his chair, and says, “Shall we?”
Wriothesley stands quickly, feeling the last dregs of his composure slip away. “Wait!” he calls. Neuvillette, to his surprise, stops in his tracks, like Wriothesley’s command means something to him. It makes his head spin. “Aren’t you going to review my paperwork, or something?”
“No,” says Neuvillette plainly. “You’ve proven yourself already, my Warden.”
“Wriothesley,” he blurts. “My name. It’s Wriothesley.”
One corner of Neuvillette’s mouth breaks free of its downturned prison; Wriothesley dares to call it a smile. “I know.”
He touches the underside of Wriothesley’s jaw with one gloved finger, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. Momentarily, Wriothesley thinks that Neuvillette is going to kill him, is going to end him right here, a thousand leagues under the sea, for the crime of saying his own name. But he doesn’t. In fact, when Neuvillette relinquishes his touch, he looks almost pleased.
“Show me the Fortress,” says Neuvillette. His light tone does nothing to lessen the demand in his words.
“Alright,” Wriothesley agrees. He doesn’t think he could bring himself to decline his Chief Justice anything. So they walk through the Fortress of Meropide, through its back chambers and maintenance areas, side by side yet so very far apart.
***
Each week, Wriothesley files a report to the Chief Justice. For the first couple months, he had given these reports his all, making sure they complied perfectly with requirements. Eventually it struck him that these reports would never even touch Neuvillette’s desk. Some Gestionnaire was probably filing them away after a quick skim. So he figured, why not entertain them?
Thus his weekly reports become almost a relief to write. He writes of the prisoners, yes, but he also includes other details. His ratings of each morning’s tea. His hair’s tendency to frizz into a puffball at this depth. The results of his latest game of solitaire. He plays a lot of solitaire.
No one told me how lonely it would be down here , he writes this week. I’m lucky I can entertain myself. It would be difficult to leave so much behind if I wasn’t such a strategic opponent.
He seals the envelope, sends it to the surface, and thinks nothing of it.
Then, the next morning, at the precise moment Wriothesley’s office hours start, there is a knock at his door. He stands, curious. No one calls so early. The prison’s Gardemeks simply file requests, and any human guards typically approach him ten minutes or so into his work hours. Who would be so prompt?
He opens the door. All becomes clear.
“My Warden.”
Wriothesley bows at the waist hastily. “Chief Justice.”
“Rise.”
He does. The first thing he registers is Neuvillette’s slight frown. Wriothesley nearly panics, wondering what he did wrong. Perhaps he needs to reply to communications faster. Perhaps he missentenced someone. Perhaps Neuvillette has a particularly tedious task for him. “What’s the issue?”
Neuvillette’s mouth turns down further. “There is no issue. I apologize for my sudden appearance. I have a suggestion.”
“Whatever my Chief Justice suggests, I will consider.”
At that, his frown lessens. Wriothesley wonders if he does it consciously, if he even notices. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. Then, “In your report, you referenced being rather lonely.”
Wriothesley feels the blood drain from his face. “Chief Justice,” he says hastily, “I swear I haven’t done anything improper. It’s a pointless complaint. I apologize for my transgression.”
“Loneliness is not a sin,” says Neuvillette quietly. “If it were, I would drown alongside you.”
Silence settles, filling the cracks in Neuvillette’s facade. Wriothesley watches closely as his eyes become lighter, clearer. Shallower waters, he thinks. Like he’s closer to breaking the surface.
“You would?” Wriothesley asks, rather stupidly.
Neuvillette nods sharply, once.
Wriothesley exhales harshly, shoulders heavy. “I guess justice is a lonely pursuit.”
“Indeed. That is why I have come with a suggestion.”
“Oh.” He suddenly feels embarrassed. “You don’t have to do anything for me, Chief Justice. I’m perfectly alright down here. I’ll do my job just fine.” Just like you do , he thinks, but doesn’t say it, because insubordination is very real and he does not want to be charged with it.
“It… is not only for you,” says Neuvillette stiffly. “May I let her in?”
“Her?”
“Yes.”
Wriothesley has half a mind to tell the Chief Justice that he hasn’t been interested in a woman in his life and that he’d much prefer being brought a nice hunk of a man instead, a man like the Chief Justice himself even, but instead, he bites his tongue so hard it nearly bleeds.
“Sigewinne? You may enter.”
The girl who walks in makes Wriothesley do a double take. She’s short, with a short crop of silver hair and ears to match. Wriothesley has never seen anyone like her. Her red eyes are wide. She looks terrified.
“This is Sigewinne,” says Neuvillette. “Sigewinne, this is the Warden.”
“Wriothesley,” he offers. When he kneels, Sigewinne cowers. He realizes abruptly that he must look intimidating, and smiles slightly. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
He’s expecting a response like, ‘hi’ , or a shy wave, or ‘you’re so spiky’ . Instead, Sigewinne stands up straight, looks him in the eye, and proclaims, “I’m here seeking an internship with the Fortress of Meropide.”
Wriothesley blinks. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Well, you’re in the right place, at least.”
“I figured she could work with you,” Neuvillette explains. “If you’d like someone to assist.”
“I have nice handwriting,” she says. “And I can play chess.”
Wriothesley looks at her again, really looks at her. She’s small and scared, yes, but very determined. He admires that. When he looks to Neuvillette, his mouth is upturned. Well, he thinks, if his Chief Justice approves, then who is he to refuse?
So Wriothesley smiles. “Welcome to the team.”
When he offers his hand, Sigewinne shakes it with firm conviction.
Neuvillette leaves quietly, without notice. Wriothesley doesn’t even get a chance to thank him before he has vanished entirely.
***
Indeed, Sigewinne effectively staves off the loneliness. She begins by visiting two days a week, and eventually begins staying the night at the Fortress more often than not. Wriothesley likes having her around. She’s just the right mix of childlike and efficient to be good company.
The only downside is that she makes these… dishes . Wriothesley isn’t sure how to describe them. Today, she brings him a second drink alongside his earl grey. When he reaches for the familiar teacup, she moves her bishop on the chessboard with a pout.
The Chief Justice visits in the afternoon. Wriothesley should probably be intimidated by him, but his visits have become frequent enough that he has his knock memorized, and doesn’t mind it.
“Hello,” says Neuvillette, when he enters. His expression softens when Sigewinne waves at him. “It’s good to see you two getting along.”
“Sigewinne is an excellent assistant, as always,” Wriothesley says, more than a little proud. Belatedly, he bows, rising on his own this time. “What brings you here today, Chief Justice?”
“…You don’t need to do that. The bowing. It’s not necessary.”
“But you’re my Chief Justice,” Wriothesley says. “I carry out your will. I am at your service.”
“And you are my Warden. You do not need to prove it time and time again.”
To his surprise, Wriothesley feels heat rising to his face, and finds he can’t argue back. “Alright,” he concedes. He wonders if this was a test, if he just failed. “In any case, why are you here?”
Neuvillette raises an eyebrow. “May I not visit whenever the fancy strikes me?” Though his tone is flat, his mouth quirks up slightly; Wriothesley mentally translates it into a beaming grin. “I must visit a particular prisoner regarding an ongoing case, though I figured I also ought to check on my Warden and my daughter.”
Wriothesley chokes on his tea. “Your what ?”
“My daughter. Sigewinne.”
Wriothesley tries, in vain, to compose himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Neuvillette frowns slightly. “I assumed you knew,” he says. “All the Melusines are my daughters, though only in name. I suppose ‘benefactor’ would be a more accurate term for my role.”
“I’m a Melusine,” Sigewinne provides, before Wriothesley can ask. “Sort of. It’s complicated.” She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” he reassures quickly. Truthfully, he had been suspicious of her origins, especially considering her ears, but had figured it was none of his business. “I was only surprised. I didn’t know you were so important,” he teases, ruffling her hair. She beams. “Daughter of the Chief Justice.”
“In name only,” Neuvillette repeats.
Wriothesley smiles. His voice feels softer than usual. “I know.”
For a long moment, Neuvillette stares at him. His eyes darken, becoming fathomless depths. Like he can see everything Wriothesley has ever hidden, everything he carefully bites back. Wriothesley shivers just to think of it.
But Neuvillette breaks the piercing contact quickly. “Sigewinne?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to leave a drink unattended. Did you forget about it?”
She crosses her arms. “No. But someone did.”
Oh. Wriothesley gets the feeling he’s in trouble.
To his surprise, Neuvillette only sounds almost amused. “It’s impolite to waste a gift. Besides, I promise these drinks taste delicious. Particularly those made by Sigewinne. She has a gift.”
Wriothesley is fully intending to scoff, to say plain early grey is his only vice, until Neuvillette catches his eye. He looks unburdened, much lighter than usual. His eyes glow like sunlight reflecting off waves. Against his will, Wriothesley finds his heart racing, his breath shallow. “In that case,” he says, almost breathless, “I’ll have to try it.”
“Very satisfactory, my Warden. As always.”
With that, Neuvillette departs, leaving Wriothesley blinking himself out of a stupor in his wake. He finds the drink in his hand before he can think better of it.
“Try it,” Sigewinne encourages. “If you don’t like it, I won’t make it anymore. But just try it.”
He does. True to Neuvillette’s word, it’s delicious. He says so. Sigewinne looks proud.
As he returns to his senses, the potential causes of his reaction become clearer. Neuvillette’s piercing eyes, his unshakeable composure, his immovable mouth. The slant of his shoulders. The cut of his voice. The weight of his attention. Wriothesley feels warmer just thinking of it.
It hits him like a tsunami to the face. Shit. He’s attracted to Neuvillette. The Warden, to his Chief Justice. Wriothesley could laugh. What a stupid pursuit. What a pointless endeavor, to pursue someone to whom Wriothesley has already promised himself, who is predisposed, by nature, to never promise himself back.
Wriothesley sips the drink and supposes, rather grimly, that he’s fucked.
***
Neuvillette always proclaims, to the public, that he will take a day off when injustice takes one off too. Wriothesley hates to admit that he’s in a similar position. He gets one day a week free from warden duties, but stays at the Fortress anyway. It’s not like he’s got anywhere else to go.
That is, until Sigewinne asks.
“It’ll be fun,” she says, tugging on his sleeve. “My sisters really want to meet you. And you have a Vision, so you can travel underwater.”
So Wriothesley finds himself following her through a dizzyingly fast current towards Merusea Village, struggling to keep up while she laughs, exhilarated. The trip doesn’t take as long as he expects; they reach the village before he faints from exhaustion, at any rate.
To his surprise, Merusea Village is… pretty. It’s full of well-kept gardens and stepping stones. He practically tiptoes through the village, waving to every Melusine he sees. Sigewinne stops to talk to each one, introducing him. He compliments one’s garden of Sumeru roses, tastes one’s dish, politely rejects one’s potion. It’s a far cry from being a prison warden, but it’s pleasant.
“Only a few more to visit,” Sigewinne sing-songs, making her way back toward the entrance.
“There’s more?”
“Underwater!”
Wriothesley feels nauseous at the thought of more swimming. “Hang on-”
But Sigewinne dives into the small pool, so he sighs and follows her.
It’s a long way down, though nowhere near as bad as the Fortress. When at last he reaches the bottom, he’s relieved. He glances around, noticing houses similar to those above the water. A few Melusines, including Sigewinne, float outside one, talking to-
Wriothesley’s breath catches.
There, floating amidst the depths, is the Chief Justice himself. He looks incredibly different; his hair billows around him in rich white clouds, and his drenched coat clings to him, softening his silhouette. He looks radiant. Just one glimpse makes Wriothesley feel like he should be fucking condemned.
Neuvillette’s head turns slightly. Wriothesley immediately turns back, retreating toward the light. If he could only escape before-
He realizes, as someone catches his wrist halfway there, that it’s already too late.
“My Warden,” Neuvillette murmurs. His voice is different underwater, echoing with a richer timbre, like the water is speaking alongside him. “A pleasure to see you here.”
“Don’t speak to me like that,” Wriothesley breathes, before he can think better of it. “Please.”
Neuvillette tilts his head, inquisitive. “Like what?”
“Like you might not mind me.”
“But I do not,” says Neuvillette. “I do not mind you at all. That ought to be quite evident.”
He has yet to release Wriothesley’s wrist. At this distance, Wriothesley imagines he could watch the change in Neuvillette’s eyes like Coppelia and Coppelius watch each other dance. It’s dangerous. Neuvillette is dangerous.
Wriothesley closes his eyes, opens them with some composure. “Chief Justice-”
“Neuvillette. Call me Neuvillette.”
“…Neuvillette,” he says softly. It sounds so delightful, so forbidden, that he can’t recall why he said it in the first place.
“They don’t know me as the Chief Justice,” Neuvillette explains. He slowly begins to rise again, heading toward the surface. Wriothesley finds himself pulled along. “They know me as Neuvillette. So that is what you’ll call me.”
“Alright,” Wriothesley manages.
“And, I must admit, it sounds lovely in your voice.”
Wriothesley nearly says something about that, nearly tries to reply with something coherent, but when they break the surface, the moment shatters. So he lets it go.
Neuvillette greets every Melusine with his hair sopping wet, his coat soaked, and a genuine smile on his face. Wriothesley watches the Melusines rush towards him, beaming, watches him call them his daughters, watches him laugh as they all pile on him in an imitation of a hug. Neuvillette. Just Neuvillette.
Wriothesley thinks, not for the first time, that he’s absolutely fucking beautiful.
***
“Do you really read them?”
Neuvillette’s mouth scrunches slightly. “Read what, exactly?”
“My reports,” Wriothesley says, as he pours a second cup of tea. “I always thought some Gestionnaire was filing them away without even looking.”
“Ah.” Neuvillette’s eyes fall to the table. Wriothesley imagines that if he were a little more expressive, his cheeks would be flushed. “Typically, yes, that would be the case.”
“Typically?”
“…You are not typical.”
“So that means…”
Though it’s almost imperceptible, Neuvillette really does flush, this time. “I do,” he admits. “I have a file drawer specifically for your reports. I read them the moment they arrive.” He takes the teacup Wriothesley offers, bringing it to his nose. “Jasmine?”
Wriothesley nods.
“I thought you favored earl grey.”
“I do.”
Neuvillette looks at him curiously.
“But you don’t,” Wriothesley explains. “So I made something I thought you’d like. Was I right?”
In response, Neuvillette quietly brings the teacup to his lips, sips it slowly. His eyes slip shut, as if to savor it better. Wriothesley wills himself, very strongly, not to imagine Neuvillette closing his eyes like that while being kissed stupid. It doesn’t really work.
The teacup clinking against the saucer jolts him back to reality. “Yes,” Neuvillette says. “You were.”
Wriothesley grins. It’s such a prissy princess tea, he thinks, that it makes sense for someone like Neuvillette to enjoy it. He doesn’t mind it, either, but it’s not strongly caffeinated enough to do the job. Jasmine green is like a caress. Earl grey is like a refreshing slap to the face.
Neuvillette clears his throat. “In any case… My Warden. What can you tell me about the Fatui Harbinger Tartaglia?”
Oh. Right. Business. He totally does that. “A thing or two,” he says. Then he busies himself shuffling through his file drawers to stave off the heat in his face.
They spend an hour looking through files on Fatui-affiliated prisoners and interrogation records. Ultimately, they find very little, aside from descriptions of Tartaglia’s vicious bloodthirst and lightless eyes. Wriothesley offers to go through files on Harbingers they know more about, like Pantalone or Arlecchino, but Neuvillette refuses, saying he’s got to go.
“I’ll make more jasmine next time,” Wriothesley calls.
As he straightens his coat in the doorway, Neuvillette glances back. “I’m also partial to lapsang souchong, you know.”
The lock clicks behind him. Wriothesley stares at the door for several minutes, willing Neuvillette to come back, to ask for a stronger cup of tea, to lean close across his desk and whisper that he’ll wait until Wriothesley gets it right, that he doesn’t mind how long it’s taking. But the door doesn’t reopen for the rest of the day.
***
Wriothesley goes to the surface. The ascension makes him feel sick, but the air smells much nicer, so he lets it slide. He takes the aquabus to the Court and wanders around the lower district until he finds a tea shop tucked away between a jeweler and a breakfast cafe.
“Thirty-two ounces of earl grey,” he requests.
The shop assistant weighs it out, placing it into a tin for him. He reaches out to take it, on instinct, but hesitates. His eyes settle on another variety, and he makes a snap decision.
“And eight ounces of lapsang souchong.”
And so Wriothesley finds himself carrying around two tins of tea, one for him and one for his Chief Justice, a guest who never stays quite long enough to warrant it.
He takes the lift to the upper districts and walks past obscenely pristine estates until his eyes can’t take any more sunlight. He wanders for a bit, but ultimately finds himself back at the aquabus stop, debating how to waste the remaining afternoon hours.
“Eastbound for Marcotte Station, leaving in one minute!”
Fuck it, Wriothesley thinks, and gets on. He takes it through Marcotte, all the way to the Fountain of Lucine and the Opera Epiclese. He hasn’t been to the Opera in ages, not since he discovered he could spend all his time underwater and that sunlight wasn’t actually necessary. The building feels just as imposing as it did then.
He debates going in. There’s surely some grand spectacle inside, a trial or performance or something in between. He’s never been a big fan of either. But as soon as he turns to leave, he realizes that if there’s a trial, there’s also a Chief Justice.
Wriothesley turns back around and enters the Opera.
The case is unremarkable: a civil lawsuit between neighboring businesses, as far as Wriothesley can tell. But above everything, standing with the whole Opera Epiclese at his beck and call, is Neuvillette, looking absolutely stunning.
Wriothesley loiters in the back of the courtroom for what feels like hours, watching Neuvillette’s microscopic reactions to each piece of information, watching the scales of justice tick in time with the changes in Neuvillette’s expression. When he declares his verdict, the Oratrice pronounces its own in unison.
Here, Neuvillette looks like justice itself. Wriothesley sometimes wonders if he is.
As the trial ends, everyone filters out of the audience. The sun is sinking outside the Opera; the court is closing. Wriothesley stays, waiting to be noticed. It doesn’t take long.
“My Warden,” calls Neuvillette from his lofty position. His voice echoes, even as he begins to descend toward the stage. “It’s unusual to see you above the water line. Is there an occasion?”
“Not really,” Wriothesley says, as Neuvillette’s feet touch the ground. He notices, for the first time, that Neuvillette’s wearing heels. “Do you always wear those?”
“Yes.”
“How tall are you without them?”
Neuvillette glares. “Tall enough.”
Clearly not, Wriothesley thinks, if he wears them all the time, but has the good sense to hold his tongue. “You’re plenty intimidating without them.”
Neuvillette looks at him strangely. “I do not wish to intimidate you. Do I really?”
“Yes,” Wriothesley says, unthinkingly honest. “Always.”
“I ought to remedy that. You are my Warden. It won’t do for you to fear me.”
“It’s not fear, exactly.” Wriothesley punches out an exhale, trying to figure out a way to explain without incriminating himself. “I just… want you to think well of me, I guess.”
Neuvillette’s eyes snap to his, so light they’re nearly white. “I think very well of you already. You must know that.”
Wriothesley smiles wryly. “I should get going,” he says. “I need to get back to the Fortress before it’s dark.”
He starts walking up the aisle, towards the exit. Neuvillette follows him, steps in sync with his. “You never answered my question. What brought you up here?”
“…Went to a tea shop. I ran out of earl grey.”
“I see.” A pause. “Was that all?”
“No,” Wriothesley admits. “I bought lapsang, too.”
Neuvillette stumbles. He’s never lost his composure in any public capacity, at least not before Wriothesley. “Do you enjoy it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.”
For a moment, Neuvillette is silent. Then he stops in his tracks.
Wriothesley turns back to him, concerned. Neuvillette looks strange, his face set with determination that he usually doesn’t need to muster. “Are you alright?”
“Come home with me.”
Wriothesley stares at him, baffled. “You can’t mean that,” he says, half-laughing to disguise the way his heart stutters in his chest.
“I meant to have a cup of tea this evening anyhow. Would it be inconvenient to join me?”
“No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be at the Fortress tomorrow, and I don’t like making the journey at night.”
“I’ll take you in the morning,” says Neuvillette, like it’s that simple.
“I don’t have a place to stay.”
“Stay with me, then.”
Wriothesley, amidst the pounding of his heart, hesitates.
“I don’t mind,” says Neuvillette. He takes Wriothesley’s hand; Wriothesley hopes he can’t feel how it shakes. “Join me.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“You don’t like me.”
“But I do,” says Neuvillette softly. “I like you quite a lot.”
Wriothesley wrestles with his last ounce of self-control and escapes Neuvillette’s grasp, tucking both of his hands into his pockets. “Good night, Chief Justice,” he mutters, and turns on his heel, stalking toward the exit like he’s fleeing a crime scene.
Part of him labors under the hopeful delusion that Neuvillette will come chasing after him, will yell his name and take his hand and confess that he never wants Wriothesley to leave. That’s all it is, though, a delusion; behind him, Neuvillette doesn’t make a sound.
Wriothesley walks to the aquabus alone. Rain drizzles onto his shoulders, slow at first, then more insistent.
He has difficulty falling asleep. The air in the Fortress feels too thick in his lungs.
***
He doesn’t hear a word from the surface for days.
***
Sigewinne is downcast when she arrives. She doesn’t say so, but it’s plain on her face. Wriothesley silently offers her a biscuit. She declines.
“Sigewinne,” he says, when she spaces out over their ongoing game for the third time, “is something wrong? Was there bad news at home?”
She sighs, setting her cards down on the table. “We think he’s not feeling well.”
Wriothesley blinks. “Who?”
“Monsieur Neuvillette. My sisters and I can’t figure out what the matter with him is.”
Something in his chest tightens. He’s been carefully avoiding thinking about Neuvillette for the last few days; he stashed both canisters of tea in the back of the cupboard and hasn’t looked at them since. He really is running low on earl grey, but his willful ignorance is stronger than his need for tea.
“How do you know something’s wrong at all?” he asks, more sharply than intended.
“It’s been raining,” she sighs, wistful. “It always rains when he’s sad.”
Wriothesley sits up, sets his cards down forcefully. “It rains?”
“Mhm.”
“Neuvillette makes it rain.”
“Yeah.”
Wriothesley, oddly enough, doesn’t think of the Hydro Dragon. Instead, he thinks of turning Neuvillette down, of how it poured as he got off the aquabus, alone. Of how Neuvillette seemed to wait for him to change his mind. Of how his stubborn streak got in the way, like it always does.
“Fuck.”
Sigewinne nods in sagely agreement. “If it keeps raining, the Navia line might flood.”
She takes her cards again, placing down a four of hearts. Wriothesley picks up his own, glances at his hand, then slams it back down on the table. He can’t stand this odd melancholy, this artificial sadness. “Sigewinne,” he starts, “do you think you could run the Fortress for a day?”
She looks startled. “No!”
“Great. Okay. I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“Bye.”
“Mister Wriothesley!”
If she wanted, Sigewinne could catch up to him easily. She’s a much faster swimmer than he is, even with the assistance of the lift. Wriothesley knows, as he reaches the surface above the Fortress, that Sigewinne is letting him leave. She’s come a long way, he thinks, and feels oddly proud.
The feeling lasts about two seconds. Then he notices the clouds.
Hovering above the Court, above Marcotte and Poisson and the mountains, is a torrential downpour. He hadn’t noticed at first, having come out of the water; the wind is silent, and there is no lightning, no thunder. It’s just rain. Rain, as far as the eye can see.
Shit, he thinks. Sigewinne wasn’t kidding.
By the time he reaches the aquabus, it’s already closed. It’s preemptive, the clerk tells him, just in case. Wriothesley tells her it’s fine, that he doesn’t mind. Then he walks.
The rain gets worse the closer he draws to the Opera Epiclese. It makes sense, he thinks, with wry amusement. Of course Neuvillette would continue to work. Wriothesley, rather hypocritically, wonders if he knows how to do anything else.
At the Opera doors, he hesitates. He hadn’t even thought to bring anything. And now that he’s here, it strikes him that perhaps Neuvillette’s sadness has nothing to do with him, or that it could be a simple weather anomaly. It might be irrelevant.
Then again, it might not. He pushes open the door.
Even now, there’s a trial being held, with every spectator dressed to the nines. Today, it’s a criminal trial: a man caught attempting to poison his wife. It’s a very dramatic tale, he can tell, because Lady Furina can’t seem to help herself, bursting with glee as more details are revealed.
Neuvillette, on the other hand, looks miserable. His mouth is set, his hair doesn’t glow. His eyes are half-shimmering, filled with unshed tears.
This time, Wriothesley doesn’t bother hiding. Neuvillette notices him near instantly. The raindrops pelting the Opera grow heavier. He stands. “Requesting a brief recess.”
“Granted,” says Lady Furina carelessly. “Reconvene in one half hour.”
The audience buzzes as they return to the lobby. No one notices Neuvillette slip down, move into the audience seating they just vacated.
“My Warden,” he says. His eyes are cold. “Are you in need of something?”
Wriothesley pauses. “No,” he admits. “But I-”
“Then please do not disrupt court proceedings.”
With that, Neuvillette turns around. Wriothesley watches him go for approximately four seconds, watches him begin returning to his isolated seat. He’s frozen in place. It strikes him, suddenly, that this must be how Neuvillette felt that evening, when he turned tail and ran.
“Chief Justice,” he calls. Then, when he gets no response, “Neuvillette!”
Neuvillette stops.
Wriothesley takes it as a positive sign. “Neuvillette,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”
He turns. “For what?”
“For leaving so suddenly. For saying you don’t like me.” He exhales heavily. “For doubting you.”
The corner of Neuvillette’s mouth twitches up. “Good,” he murmurs, as he descends again. “You made an oath, did you not? To serve me in unquestioning faith?”
“I did.”
“Then why,” Neuvillette says, drawing closer one step at a time, “must you question my devotion to you ?”
His eyes are piercing. Wriothesley swallows. “I’m just your Warden.”
Neuvillette huffs through his nose, sounding irritated. “How many times must I tell you,” he starts, “that it does not matter in the slightest? How many times must I tell you that I’d be just as fond of you if you were naught but a sinner condemned beneath the scales of justice?”
“Fond?” asks Wriothesley, breathless. Neuvillette keeps growing closer along the aisle, even when the distance between them is perfectly acceptable. “Please don’t give me ideas, Chief Justice.”
“You know my name.”
“…Please don’t give me ideas, Neuvillette.”
“You,” he breathes, drawing impossibly closer, “are incorrigible.” Currents surge in his eyes. The rain patters, harsh, against the glass ceiling of the Opera. Neuvillette stares him down, scant distance away. His attention is unwavering. “You are intolerable, and self-deprecating, and unbelievably foolish.”
“…And?”
“And I cannot stay away.”
Wriothesley kisses him.
It’s brief, barely a ghost of a touch. But Neuvillette’s eyes slip shut, and his arms slip around Wriothesley’s waist, and he breathes a sigh so content that Wriothesley does it again. Eventually, his arms work their way to the back of Neuvillette’s head, tangling in his hair, keeping him close. Neuvillette is just as slow and deliberate as Wriothesley had dared to expect.
When they break apart, the courtroom is empty, silent save for the shallow drone of raindrops on the roof.
“It’s lighter than before,” Wriothesley observes, glancing up. “The rain.”
Neuvillette smiles slightly. “If you say anything about that silly children’s rhyme,” he threatens, “I shall have to revoke your right to do that again.”
“So you’ll let me do it again if I don’t?”
A pause. “Perhaps.”
“The Court won’t reconvene for a while still.”
“Then I suppose,” says Neuvillette haughtily, “you’ve got that long to convince me.”
He shines with self-assuredness, with confidence. Wriothesley is reminded of his oath ceremony, of swearing his loyalty, of the touch of Neuvillette’s sword binding them together.
So Wriothesley kisses him again, like he’s swearing another oath, this time not to his Chief Justice but only to Neuvillette.
By the time the Court reconvenes, a faint sliver of sunlight peeks through the clouds.
***
Though the rain doesn’t cease, it relents. Wriothesley thinks Sigewinne is still angry with him for abandoning her the other day, but she’s not so cold as to stop reporting the weather to him. Besides, she probably knows damn well that he had a part in its changes.
On the third day, Sigewinne arrives with a grin. “The pavement was dry!” she pronounces gleefully. “He must be feeling alright.”
Wriothesley smiles. “Glad to hear it,” he says, sliding a teacup across the table. Sigewinne picks it up, scoffs, and slides it back to him, pulling out her jar. Soon enough, she vanishes to prepare herself a drink. She comes back with two, and sets one before him.
He drinks it all. It tastes sort of like forgiveness.
Eventually, after Sigewinne sets down the records she’s alphabetized, she breaks the silence. “Mister Wriothesley?” she asks, hesitant.
Wriothesley is suddenly reminded that Sigewinne, despite everything, looks up to him. The thought makes him sit up taller. “Yes?”
“Do you think Monsieur Neuvillette will visit today?”
She looks hopeful. Me too , Wriothesley thinks. He laughs, dry. “I don’t know,” he says, ruffling her hair. “I think it won’t be long, though.”
“He’d better go see my sisters first. They were so worried.”
Wriothesley stays silent. In all honesty, he’d nearly forgotten about the Melusines, Neuvillette’s daughters-in-name-only. Surely it’s worse for them, not knowing why Neuvillette was sad, not knowing if he’s improved. Surely they, who have known him for so long, deserve an explanation.
So Wriothesley decides that he can wait, that he doesn't need to worry. Neuvillette had faith in him; the least he can do is return the favor.
***
The knock comes at the precise moment his work hours start. Wriothesley grins as he heads over to unlock it.
“Hello,” says Neuvillette. For once, he doesn’t seem quite perfect. There are circles beneath his eyes and creases in his cravat. He appears nearly human. Wriothesley doesn’t think he’s ever looked so wonderful.
Wriothesley lets him in with a sweep of his hand. “Neuvillette,” he says, testing the waters. “What brings you here?”
Other than the corner of his mouth moving up, Neuvillette gives no indication that he notices the name. “I heard that someone purchased a variety of tea I happen to enjoy. Would you know anything about that?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it, my Warden.”
Wriothesley stares at him briefly. Then it hits: he’s asking. He’s offering the option to back out. He wonders if that’s why Neuvillette didn’t chase after him, if he thought persuasion would be unjust.
Rather than ask, though, he just leans on his desk. “Back to titles, are we?”
Neuvillette’s gaze shifts slightly. “You’ve never asked,” he says quietly. “I won’t, not unless you offer.”
“Call me Wriothesley, then.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just say it.”
“Wriothesley,” says Neuvillette, without hesitation. It has the sort of ring to it that would make Wriothesley do anything he asked. “Would you let me stay?”
And though Wriothesley knows he doesn’t mean forever, that they’ve both got obligations, that they won’t be able to spend every moment together, that Neuvillette has known so many more lifetimes than he would admit, he gets it.
Wriothesley excavates the tins of tea from the cupboard’s depths, and chooses the smaller. He brews two cups of lapsang souchong, under Neuvillette’s watchful guidance. When he leans in to comment on the proper amount of tea leaves, Wriothesley takes his hand, intertwines their fingers. Neuvillette only looks momentarily surprised, but continues one-handedly, looking less stoic than usual.
When the tea is finished, he pours two cups, brings them to his desk. Neuvillette sits across from him, just like always. Wriothesley brings the tea to his lips, sips it. It’s strong, smoky, heavy.
“What are your thoughts?” Neuvillette asks, setting down his cup, pinky extended. “Was it worth the purchase?”
“Absolutely,” he replies, and it’s true. He wouldn’t drink it every day, but he bought a smaller amount for just this purpose. Besides, it’s worth it to have something Neuvillette likes, to know him that much better.
Though he doesn’t respond, Neuvillette smiles slightly.
“So,” Wriothesley says, “has it stopped raining yet?”
Neuvillette’s smile only grows. “Isn’t discussing the weather a bit cliché?” he asks, which Wriothesley takes as a sign that yes, the rain has stopped, and yes, it won’t be returning with a vengeance anytime soon.
“Well, I have to ask these things.” Wriothesley shrugs, sipping his tea again. It’s growing on him. “It never rains down here, you know.”
Neuvillette looks at him over his cup of tea, and Wriothesley’s heart skips a beat as his smile transforms into a beaming grin. “No,” he says, “I suppose it doesn’t.”
The tea has a nice aftertaste, Wriothesley finds, especially when he tastes it on Neuvillette’s lips.
***
It still rains from time to time. Of course it does; the Marcottes need rain to grow, the mountains need rain to flourish. But when they arrive, the torrents are calm, rather than all-consuming. And it never rains underwater, not if Wriothesley has anything to say about it.