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“Hey, look.”
Neuvillette looked up from the programme in his hands to find Wriothesley peering over the edge of their private box. “Wriothesley,” he said, more chiding than he would like.
The look on Wriothesley’s face, an almost canine kind of glee, an almost feline kind of mischief, told him that he’d heard and didn’t care—that he knew exactly what he was doing. “The nice thing about being an ill-bred brat,” he said, a self-deprecating curl in his lips, “is that no one expects you to behave well. And the nice thing about being Prison Administrator of Meropide is that no one has the balls to say anything.”
“Some decorum, please,” Neuvillette said all the same, but from the way that Wriothesley’s grin widened, he wasn’t offended.
He even seemed to find it funny.
Good, because Neuvillette had intended it as a joke of sorts. He was not one for such humor, wasn’t sure how to even begin to approach it, but Wriothesley always seemed to understand when he was making an attempt at it.
“Alright,” Wriothesley said and folded himself into the wide, throne-like chair beside Neuvillette. He shifted, legs spread indecorously, lifting his head and shoulders, craning his neck to see over the railing of the balcony. He made a pleased noise and turned to look at Neuvillette with that pleased, boyish smile. “Ah, good, you can see them from here.” He moved as if he wanted to nudge Neuvillette with his elbow, but the distance between their chairs—and that the width of the cushions themselves—made it impossible.
Neuvillette looked out over the Opera as it filled with patrons. The private box they sat in was one of the most ideal ones, the most expensive and sought-after. It afforded a view of the full stage from their seats and the wonderful acoustics of the Opera meant that they would hear each note with startling clarity even before the microphones on the singers picked up their voices.
It wasn’t his typical seat, of course, but it was all the more special to him. Not because the Opera practically fell over themselves to offer it to him at several times the typical rate, but because of the man sitting, wiggling in his seat like a child attending a show for the first time, at his side.
“Of course you can,” Neuvillette said, perplexed. Was this simply another thing that they didn’t see eye to eye on? Something that one knew that the other didn’t?
When he’d invited Wriothesley to the show, he’d admitted that he’d never been to one. Not a real one, he’d amended. Some kind souls had thought to illuminate the filthy prisoners in the dark hell beneath the sea and had put on a few scaled-down shows for them. He remembered those shows, full of barely-hidden fear and contempt, the singers all terrified that they would be killed by the vicious beasts locked away.
That was then, in the time before Wriothesley had stepped in to change things, though. He’d admitted as much, which had soothed something prickly and aching in Neuvillette’s chest. But even under new management, even with all of the changes that Wriothesley had implemented to rehabilitate and improve the lives in Meropide, the stigma was still there.
“The private boxes are meant to afford privacy, yes, but they are centered so that those that pay for them will be able to see the stage,” Neuvillette said cautiously, as Wriothesley turned to give him a ragged little smile. He paused. “Is that not what you were speaking of?”
He’d been able to pick up on that more and more, the longer he interacted with Wriothesley. The little tics, the little jokes that had always…ah… ”flown over his head”.
Wriothesley had never been one to tease him for it, though. Well, he did sometimes, but very gently, as if Neuvillette was something fragile.
Neuvillette had never been treated like he was fragile before. It was a…peculiar thing. He found that he quite liked it. To be seen as fragile to someone. Fragile in a way that a granite statue was, Wriothesley had once said. Beautiful, delicate, “durable as fuck”, was the crass way that Wriothesley had finished that thought.
Wriothesley grinned. “It wasn’t,” he agreed. “Look down over the railing.”
Curious, Neuvillette obeyed. He didn’t have to crane his head as much—chose not to, in order to preserve his dignity should anyone look up. People were walking in, typically in pairs or alone; a few brought their children, though not many, given the performance’s expected content.
“What am I looking for?” he asked. Some were already seated; most were milling around, looking at their tickets to find their seats. Ushers in crisp uniforms, human and Melusine alike, assisted. Several people looked at Neuvillette’s usual seat. Some seemed disappointed that it was empty. Was he as much a spectacle as the opera was?
Wriothesley chuckled. “If I was to point, then it would be rude,” he said. “If I was to describe it, would you find them?” When Neuvillette looked at him, Wriothesley gave him a toothy grin. “The left-hand aisle,” he said. “The two seats on the end.”
Looking out over the balcony again, Neuvillette finds them fairly easily. Though they were dressed a little more casually than the others around them, they otherwise didn’t seem to stand out too much despite being one of the few people seated in their section.
“What about them?” Neuvillette asked.
Wriothesley gave him a crooked smile. “What do you think is happening?”
Frowning, Neuvillette looked back at the pair. They were bent together, speaking quietly as they looked at the programme. Both scrambled to their feet, stepping into the aisle, to let another couple through. They settled in the middle of the section and the couple that Wriothesley had pointed out returned to their seats.
The young man was craning his head to look around while the young girl read the programme.
“It seems that they are here to attend the opera, just as we are,” Neuvillette said.
“I see,” Wriothesley said.
Neuvillette looked at him suspiciously. “Do you?”
“On the surface, that is true,” Wriothesley said. “But right now, they’re on a date.”
Neuvillette looked back down at the pair. He didn’t see what Wriothesley sees—this doesn’t surprise him at all.
But he can see it, once Wriothesley had pointed it out. From what he understood of human courtship, they seemed to be behaving in such a way that he understood how Wriothesley had gotten that conclusion.
The young man bent his head to speak to the young woman who inclined her head toward him and nodded absently, her attention on the programme.
“They’re on a date but only one of them knows it,” Wriothesley continued. “Or rather, he wants it to be a date but she thinks it’s an outing as friends.”
That Neuvillette could not see. But he was well aware that Wriothesley’s skills of observation were much different than his and by virtue of being human, Wriothesley understood human emotion far better than Neuvillette did.
“How can you tell?” he asked curiously.
Wriothesley chuckled. “I just know.”
“From experience?” Neuvillette asked before he could stop himself.
“Yeah,” Wriothesley said. “You can see it in their body language. See? He keeps trying to engage her, but she’s just looking at her little book thing.”
“Programme,” Neuvillette corrected absently. He didn’t need to look at Wriothesley to know that he shrugged. “Perhaps they are talking about the programme,” he suggested.
Wriothesley shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said knowingly. “Look at the way he’s dressed. Look at the way his hair is styled. He’s trying really hard and she doesn’t even notice.”
Peering down, Neuvillette supposed that, given those conclusions, he could recognize the behavior. The young man’s hair was styled neatly, but he was old enough to desire to dress properly as befitting a proper young man. His clothes weren’t as fancy as some of the other attendees, but they were serviceable. Not that there was necessarily a dress code for the Opera, just a recommendation that one attends well-dressed.
It was a peculiar tradition that Neuvillette had observed over the many years he’s attended both trials and theatrical performances. Of course, it had never been a concern for Neuvillette—aware of his position, he’d always dressed accordingly.
Wriothesley had been one of the very few brave enough to call him “stuffy”. The only other, of course, had been Furina.
“I’m not sure that I see what you see,” Neuvillette said. “Or rather, I do not draw the same conclusions from what you see.”
“I know,” Wriothesley said in that patiently understanding way of his. Everyone feared the bite of the Wolf of Meropide, but few knew that he was also very kind.
A part of Neuvillette was darkly pleased. It meant that he could hoard such kindnesses to himself. He was very well aware that it was selfish of him—and well aware that there had been no records of the previous Hydro Dragon Sovereign being the kinds of monsters of myth and legend that greedily protected a hoard—but if that was his cruelest indulgence in the 500 years he’s served as Fontaine’s Chief Justice, then he supposed that it wasn’t so bad.
“Look again,” Wriothesley said and Neuvillette obeyed. “They’re both young, I’d guess early twenties. Adults, surely, who know how to dress themselves.” That much, Neuvillette could tell. He remained silent, curious what else Wriothesley would say. “His hair is perfectly styled, without a hair out of place; even from here, it looks like he’s put enough product in it to deflect bullets.”
Neuvillette wasn’t sure what that meant, if it was meant facetiously or if there was a product out there that would make human hair bulletproof. But he could see it all the same, the stiff way that the waves in the young man’s hair were frozen in place. He could see it in the way that he kept subtly checking it, his fingers tracing the waves of it as if making sure that it had not tumbled off his head.
“His clothes are clean and ironed, not a wrinkle in sight. New, certainly—you can tell by how bright the colors are. He might not have even washed it after buying it,” Wriothesley continued. “Look at his behavior. He wants to relax—see, there?” The young man had slouched, then sat up straight again, his back and shoulders held at tense attention.
Another couple came by and gestured to the seats past them. The young couple stood up and filed out; the young woman spoke to the other woman, who smoothed her hands proudly down her dress. They spoke, in the way that Neuvillette had seen other young ladies speak of husbands and love interests and fashion and makeup, and both men looked at each other.
The older gentleman shuffled into their seat, calling for his partner who tittered and shuffled after him. Neuvillette watched as the young woman followed and folded herself into her companion’s chair so that she sat next to the other woman and could continue to speak. Quietly, the young man followed and sat in her former seat, tucking the discarded programme into his lap.
Wriothesley made a sympathetic sound. “Rejected.”
“Surely that isn’t a rejection,” Neuvillette said, confused.
“No, not really,” Wriothesley agreed. “But you can tell that she’s not interested in including him in the conversation. Look.”
Neuvillette wanted to say that he was looking, he just wasn’t seeing what Wriothesley was seeing.
But Wriothesley had become frighteningly good at reading him, and said, “The young lady to the right, the one in the lovely blue dress—” Neuvillette thought that it was more violet himself, a shade that he’d heard Furina call “plum”, but said nothing, “—keeps turning to her companion to include him in the conversation. In comparison, the young lady to the left is not interested in including her partner. Do you see the way she shows her back to him?”
When put that way, Neuvillette could certainly understand. The young lady had turned her back to her companion who seemed to keenly feel the exclusion, judging by the way his head hung.
“Aww,” Wriothesley murmured quietly, with surprising kindness. Surprising even to Neuvillette, who knew that Wriothesley was, as he said, “not all bite”. “Chin up.”
Neuvillette frowned. “It seems that she has made her point,” he said.
“I wonder if they even discussed it,” Wriothesley said wistfully.
Curious, Neuvillette looked closer at Wriothesley. “She does not seem interested,” he said. “What is the point in continuing to put in the effort?”
Wriothesley’s smile was soft in a way that was so very rare to see. Surprised, Neuvillette looked closer at his expression and for once Wriothesley didn’t seem to notice. “The point is not reciprocation,” he said, propping his chin on his fist, and that elbow on the wide armrest of the chair. “If you expect reciprocation, then did you ever really care in the first place?”
When put that way, Neuvillette could understand. “So what would you suggest?” he asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Wriothesley said. “Some people might say that he should move on and forget her. Sometimes that means leaving her completely.”
Neuvillette looked back down at the young couple in time to see the young lady turn back around. The young man offered her the programme he’d been holding for her and she took it.
She turned back to the other woman and continued to talk. The young man’s shoulders slumped once more.
“Do you think that’s what he should do?” Neuvillette found himself asking.
“It’s hard to say,” Wriothesley said, slumping further in his seat. His posture meant that he could no longer see the young couple. In some ways, he seemed just as crestfallen as the young man. “Sometimes you need to let go like that. Sometimes, if you’re masochistic enough, you just can’t let go of them. But you must always respect their decision,” he added. “Some things…just aren’t meant to work out.”
Neuvillette frowned. “You sound as if you are speaking from experience,” he said.
Tilting his head, Wriothesley looked over at Neuvillette. He was slumped over in the wide chair, and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. He looked irreverent and indolent but his eyes held the kind of loneliness that Neuvillette understood all too well.
“Something like that,” Wriothesley said with a sad, self-deprecating smile.
Neuvillette looked back down at the young couple. The young man looked delighted that the young woman had turned to him—it was evident, even to Neuvillette’s untrained eyes, in his body language.
He looked back at Wriothesley, surprised to find him already looking at him. “I am not familiar with…many human customs,” Neuvillette said slowly. “Nor do I understand what humans may find appealing in a potential mate. However, I find it strange that anyone might turn you down.”
A wry, self-deprecating smile crossed Wriothesley’s face. “Oh?” he asked. “What makes you say that? I’m some nobody from the bottom of the sea. I’m a murderer, a convict, a person to be feared. Why wouldn’t I be turned down?”
“You are kind,” Neuvillette said. “You are intelligent. Very clever. Resourceful. You have a strong sense of morality and justice. Are those not desirable traits?”
Wriothesley chuckled. “Depends on who you ask,” he said. “But I do believe that is one of the highest compliments you’ve ever given me. Thank you, Monsieur Chief Justice.”
“We are not working,” Neuvillette said. “We are attending an opera together. Surely that has given you the right to call me by my name?” He paused, then added, “And it was not the Chief Justice that said such things.”
Something painful crossed Wriothesley’s face, quick as a flash of lightning. “Neuvillette,” he said, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue. “That is high praise from one like you. Thank you.”
“Like me?” Neuvillette asked. “What do you mean by that?”
The lights in the Opera dimmed and the quiet murmur of the attendees in the opera died down into expectant silence. Wriothesley smiled and sat up straight in his seat. “Looks like it’s starting.”
“Indeed,” Neuvillette said slowly, and turned his attention to the stage.
There had been something about the way that Wriothesley had talked about the young couple that wouldn’t leave Neuvillette’s mind.
He wondered who would be so shortsighted to turn Wriothesley down for such bizarre reasons like bloodlines and past sins. Could they not see his kindness? His sense of justice? His strong morals? He supposed that he would never understand humans if they could be so easily swayed by such trivial things.
A part of him was greatly distressed by the thought and it lingered with him.
He wondered who had turned Wriothesley down. It wasn’t his place, and he would probably make an even worse mess of it, but a part of him wanted to appeal to that person. To tell them that Wriothesley was a good man, a kind man, that his past did not define him—or rather, it defined him in a way that went beyond the sin of murder.
The opera passed in a blur. It was, fortunately, one that he had seen before, from a troupe he was familiar with so he didn’t miss anything new to him.
Absently, he toyed with the handle of his cane and considered the concept of attraction.
He was… aware of it, of course. He may not understand human emotion, but he was aware of attraction—romantic and sexual—even if he wasn’t sure that he had ever experienced it. Such a thing was not unheard of, either, and even if it wasn’t, it was never something that had ever bothered him.
Of everyone, he above all needed to remain impartial in order to perform the role he had been given as Chief Justice. How could he remain impartial if he had devoted himself, romantically or sexually, to another?
How could he remain impartial and focused on his tasks if he constantly feared for the end of the short time he had with a mortal entanglement? A thousand years of life, dozens of short human lives he’s seen come and go. How could one find joy in something so fleeting?
A part of him that sounded suspiciously like the Duke next to him said, isn’t that what makes the joy that much sweeter?
The performance received a standing ovation. Wriothesley was on his feet too, clapping, but his eyes were on Neuvillette. Something soft lingered in his eyes. Something curious, a little worried, but still with the same kindness he had shown, worrying over two strangers.
Worrying over something as innocuous as their date-not-date.
Neuvillette stood and joined in the applause.
“Mora for your thoughts?” Wriothesley asked as they both sat back down. By mutual, silent agreement, they decided to wait until the crowds die down and the throngs of attendees have dispersed.
He knew enough about human idioms to understand what he was asking. “Do not worry about it, though I appreciate your concern.”
Wriothesley lounged in his chair, as hedonistic as any old god. His legs were spread indecently, one elbow resting on one arm of the chair while one leg was hooked over the other. Next to him, Neuvillette felt…almost inadequate. As if he were the mortal and Wriothesley the god.
“It is not kind of me,” Wriothesley corrected.
“It is,” Neuvillette countered. “ You are kind.”
Wriothesley looked at him, that self-deprecating smile that Neuvillette so hated on his face. “Oh, come now, Neuvillette,” he said. He said Neuvillette’s name like he was savoring a particularly delightful piece of pastry. “The Duke of Meropide? Kind?”
“You are,” Neuvillette told him. “Why do you deny this?”
Still in that peculiar pose, Wriothesley rolled his head on his neck to look at Neuvillette. “The Duke of Meropide is a scoundrel, an ill bred louse, a monster and a murderer. He is not ‘kind’.”
Neuvillette peered at him. “You surely do not believe that,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter if I believe it or not,” Wriothesley pointed out. “It’s what everyone believes.”
“‘Everyone’ also believes that most wild animals are vicious and cruel, when they are only acting in such a way to survive,” Neuvillette pointed out. “We both know that ‘everyone’ is rarely correct. They pick and choose what they want to believe and if it does not fit the narrative they wish to share, then they change what they perceive as the truth.”
For a long moment, Wriothesley looked at Neuvillette. Wriothesley’s pale eyes seemed to stare right through him but over the course of their acquaintance, Neuvillette had lost all fear of what Wriothesley might find. “It bothers you,” he observed. “Why?”
“Many times I had received questions about our…” he considered his words, but decided that there were little that would fit just right. “...relationship. They do not seem to understand why I might allow you to stand beside me.”
Another complicated expression crossed Wriothesley’s face. “I’m worth less than the mud that clings to your boots,” Wriothesley said. “What am I compared to you? Just a mortal to a god. Just a sinner to the divine.”
“I am hardly infallible,” Neuvillette said. “You know this.”
Wriothesley’s smile was barbed and painful. “Not from my point of view.”
For a long moment, Neuvillette regarded him. “I am no more perfect than any human in Teyvat,” he said. “In fact, I would almost say that I am more flawed, in some senses. Even a clockwork Meka can pretend to have emotion. I cannot even do that much.”
With a speed that was surprising to most but not to Neuvillette, Wriothesley swung around, sitting up in his seat and twisting to look at Neuvillette. “Don’t say that,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter if I believe it or not,” Neuvillette told him. “It’s what everyone believes.”
Wriothesley blinked at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. A few of the ushers and custodians, who were beginning to clean up the assorted trash leftover from the other attendees, who were cleaning chairs and sweeping the floors, all jumped and looked up at them. He grinned at Neuvillette, expression lightened with boyish glee but weighed down by the aching look in his eyes that Neuvillette couldn’t name. “Well played.”
“Even the most hated person in Teyvat must have had someone that loved them,” Neuvillette mused as he looked out over the lower floors of the Opera. “Do you think, Wriothesley, that on the gallows that person thinks of all of the people that hate them? Or do you think that they think of the person that loved them?”
“It depends,” Wriothesley answered. “Were they loved back?”
Neuvillette considered it. He thought about the young couple they had watched. “Perhaps they would rather think of the people they love,” he said.
“Even if it breaks their heart,” Wriothesley agreed. He kicked both legs up over the opposite arm of his chair. He didn’t cross them as he had clearly considered, and Neuvillette could see that he was still tense, still wary—his relaxation was faked for the sake of someone else.
“Earlier,” Neuvillette began and then stopped.
Wriothesley rolled his head to look at Neuvillette. “Earlier?” he prompted when Neuvillette didn’t continue.
“It is nothing.”
Rolling over, Wriothesley sat up again. “It’s not nothing if you want to talk about it,” he said. “Mora for your thoughts?” By sleight of hand, a trick he’d shown Neuvillette several times before, he made a single mora piece dance over his knuckles. “Or, if that seems too much like bribery…” He flipped the mora piece into the air, caught it, then showed his empty hands to Neuvillette.
“Did Monsieur Lyney teach you that?” Neuvillette wondered.
“Oh, please,” Wriothesley laughed. “I’ve been doing that since before that little twink was born.”
Neuvillette wondered what a “twink” was, but surmised through context that it was Monsieur Lyney. Or part of Monsieur Lyney. He wondered what part.
“I’m serious though,” Wriothesley said after the silence had been drawn out for several minutes. His voice was light but his face was earnest and sincere. “You know that I’m willing to listen, right?”
“It is less that I am reluctant to share these things with you,” Neuvillette said carefully. “And for the sake of my pride…I have difficulty considering the idea. However, my…reluctance to say anything stems more from my inability to understand what it is I am feeling.”
Wriothesley sucked his teeth and clicked his tongue—a type of response that Neuvillette knew was popular in Liyue. “Feelings are hard, aren’t they?”
“Are you mocking me?” Neuvillette asked.
“Maybe a little,” Wriothesley said with that boyish grin. “With kindness, of course.”
“Even if it was with cruelty, it would not matter to me,” Neuvillette told him. “I would not be hurt by it.”
He was startled to realize that he was lying, though. He really would be quite upset. Hurt in a way that he wasn’t used to feeling.
Wriothesley looked at him for a long moment, and Neuvillette wondered what Wriothesley saw. Then he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
The door behind them opened and a young usher walked in. “Oh,” she said. “My apologies, monsieurs .”
“Please do not worry yourself,” Neuvillette said. “We had merely lost track of time. Your Grace?”
Wriothesley moved smoothly to his feet. He walked on his toes, light and nimble as if even now, in the Opera Epiclese, he was expecting a fight. “After you, Chief Justice.”
Inclining his head in polite goodbye to the usher, Neuvillette swept from the room and paused outside to allow Wriothesley to come up beside him.
“This way,” Neuvillette prompted when Wriothesley paused, turning toward the stairs.
Visibly perplexed, Wriothesley followed and eventually came up beside Neuvillette as they walked through the hallways. They encountered several custodians and ushers who all gave them polite nods but otherwise didn’t challenge them.
“Sneaky,” Wriothesley said with a low chuckle. “Who would have thought?”
“Architects,” Neuvillette said. “Or those looking to do maintenance on the fountains.” Wriothesley smiled at him, his eyes crinkling. It made the scar under his eye stretch, made the skin there pucker so that his eyes looked a little lopsided. “Oh,” Neuvillette said. “That is not what you meant.”
“No,” Wriothesley agreed. “But it’s cute that you took it that way.”
Neuvillette peered at him. “Cute?”
“Cute,” Wriothesley repeated. “So…this is a service area?”
“It is,” Neuvillette agreed, allowing the change in topic. He allowed the door to slide quietly shut behind him. The outside of the door was painted gray so that nobody from the lower levels would notice it, even if it was easy to see from very many angles. “Custodians and repairmen come here to access the fountains on this level as needed. Though very few will see them, they still need to do maintenance and clear out any algae buildup.”
Wriothesley walked around the narrow ledge like an animal exploring a new cage. Loud voices made them both look up. “What was that?”
“After the opera concludes, there is often a celebration outside,” Neuvillette explained. “People linger to talk about the show and, when the actors come out, congratulate them.”
“Hm,” Wriothesley said. “Is that why you brought me up here?”
Wriothesley was quite observant. It shouldn’t surprise Neuvillette anymore, but it often did. His ice-blue eyes had a tendency to see things that others missed or overlooked.
“I come here myself, sometimes,” Neuvillette admitted. “When I need a moment to breathe. I find it…soothing.”
“To be set apart from everyone?” Wriothesley asked.
Neuvillette looked out over the walkway to Meropide, with the decorations around it shaped like a giant louisette . The similarities to the antiquated device were pointed out by Wriothesley, while he escorted the Duke to the entrance to Meropide. A morbid topic, but their conversations were so rarely what one might call “average”.
Beyond the imposing stone structure was the Court; beyond it still were the blade-sharp peaks of Mont Esus, rendered purplish-blue with distance.
“My existence is to be set apart from everyone,” Neuvillette said a little wistfully. A part of him hoped that Wriothesley wouldn’t notice; a part of him knew that Wriothesley already had. There was little that escaped Wriothesley’s frosty eyes.
Wriothesley hummed, creeping to the edge and peering down. Though Neuvillette himself did not fear heights, he found himself gripping his cane tighter nonetheless. As if inhumanly attuned to Neuvillette, Wriothesley twisted around to give him a boyish smirk. “You know, it’s not the fall that kills you,” he said.
“I was under the impression that it was,” Neuvillette said.
“Nope,” Wriothesley said, straightening and prowling back to Neuvillette. “It’s the sudden stop at the end!”
Ah.
Humor.
Neuvillette allowed himself a small smile. “I suppose that is correct,” he said.
“I feel special,” Wriothesley said, his smile widening. It made him look like some of his youth had been returned to him. As if he didn’t have quite as many burdens—of duty and memories alike—resting on his shoulders. “First, I am invited to the Opera by the Iudex himself. Then, I am invited to a private area that the Iudex uses to decompress.” Wriothesley pauses. “ And then I am treated to such a rare treat as to see the Iudex smile.”
A part of Neuvillette preens at that. A part of him that was instinct without substance wants him to arch his neck, pleased, but such motions are wasted on a human body and would not convey the same meaning intended.
Another part of him felt it important to correct the misconception. “It is not the Iudex that has done such things,” Neuvillette said. Unbidden, a thought rose to the forefront of his mind: is that all I am to you? It feels…hurt. Like a physical pain that was somehow not physical.
Wriothesley smiled. “No,” he agreed with surprising gentility. “It wasn’t.”
They lapsed into silence. On the other side of the Opera, the sounds of celebrations continued. A live band started playing, or perhaps street performers, and the noise of the crowd rose and fell like the rocking of the tides.
“Come on,” Wriothesley said, walking along the flat area to one of the raised fountains.
“What are you doing?” Neuvillette asked, following him as bidden. It was only after he stood beside Wriothesley beside the chest-high stone that he realized that he had done so. But how could he not? It was as if there was a string tied to him, as if he was a Liyuen kite and Wriothesley held his string.
It was a terrifying thought.
“Getting a better look,” Wriothesley said, running a hand over the sun-warmed stone. “Come on,” he said again and vaulted up.
For a long moment, Neuvillette looked up at him, craning his head back as Wriothesley twisted on the stone to sit down. He grinned down at Neuvillette, that look of boyish mischief returning.
“A better look at what?” Neuvillette asked instead of vaulting up beside Wriothesley.
“The celebrations,” Wriothesley said as if it was obvious. With anyone else it might seem condescending but somehow Wriothesley had never made such things feel as if he thought less of Neuvillette for not understanding. He leaned down, propping his elbows on his knees, and though he literally looked down at Neuvillette, it felt…comfortable. As if he wasn’t looking down at Neuvillette in any other way than physical.
Even the Melusines sometimes made him feel that way. As if they pitied him, or were frustrated by his obtuseness.
Wriothesley merely seemed to take it in stride. He wasn’t perfect, of course—Neuvillette could tell that he was sometimes frustrated as well—but for the most part, Wriothesley was far more forgiving than one would expect.
He was so many things, as complex as humans often said wine was supposed to be. Hints of fruit and spices among the bitterness of fermented juice, complex flavors added by barrels, by storing, by the temperature and humidity.
To Neuvillette, wine would ever be an indulgence he could neither savor nor understand nor appreciate, but if Wriothesley was a wine, he would gladly learn it.
A peculiar thought. He took a moment to consider it. If Wriothesley was a wine…well, that was impossible. A ridiculous train of thought. Humans were not wine; humans did not become wine, except in those horrible novels of death and murder.
But if Wriothesley was a wine, Neuvillette would learn to drink it. He would learn to taste it over his tongue, to pick out the separate notes as easily as he picked apart the flavors of water from around Teyvat.
He wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Wriothesley waited patiently, that boyish look on his face as he leaned down to watch Neuvillette. “Are you back with me?” he asked, lifting his head a little.
“My apologies,” Neuvillette said, unsure how to describe his lapse in attention. He decided that the best course of action would be to not say anything.
“Don’t worry about it,” Wriothesley said and it wasn’t a uselessly polite human platitude. When Wriothesley spoke to Neuvillette, he meant it. He sat up and patted the stone beside him. “Will you come up?”
Neuvillette hesitated. He wasn’t wearing his heavy court robes, but his coat marked his position as much as those robes did. It was one thing for Wriothesley to be seen as he was—his earlier statement about people viewing him as an uncultured louse was quite sadly correct—but for Neuvillette?
There was an easy solution, however. Neuvillette stepped closer to the corner of the Opera and leaned his cane against the wall. Then he slipped his overcoat off, leaving him in his waistcoat and blouse. Still dressed, but it was easier to hide scuffs from dirt and dust and whatever grime lingered on the stone near the fountains this way. He carefully set it aside in an area that looked at least somewhat clean then returned to Wriothesley’s side.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this dressed down,” Wriothesley said.
Neuvillette paused. “Is this inappropriate?”
“Not at all,” Wriothesley assured him. “Not to me, anyway. But to put it in context, we’re—to some extent—trespassing on a part of the Opera Epiclese that the general public is not allowed access to. More than that, we are climbing on the fountains. If there is anything inappropriate here, I don’t think that it is you taking off your coat.”
When phrased that way, Neuvillette could understand Wriothesley’s point. Speaking with Wriothesley was often like that—he had a very fascinating look on everything, even if it was sometimes a little bleak.
Most importantly, it was a different perspective and he wasn’t afraid to challenge Neuvillette’s own views.
Neuvillette considered the chest-high edge of the fountain for a moment. “Do you need help?” Wriothesley asked.
After another moment to consider the ledge—and, if he was being honest, the mobility he would have with the fit of his pants—Neuvillette vaulted up as well. He breathed a sigh of relief when the motion didn’t come with the sound of breaking thread.
“Yeah,” Wriothesley said with a little laugh, as if he could read Neuvillette’s mind. “It would be quite unfortunate if you ripped that…what do you call it? The crotch seam?”
“Inseam,” Neuvillette corrected. “Along the inside of the leg is the inseam. The crotch seam is the one that runs down the middle.”
Wriothesley laughed. “Both of them,” he said. “Crotch, inseam, both aren’t fun to have ripped. But at least your coat would cover it. Still, I’d feel bad.” He pushed himself to his feet, balancing on the lip of the fountain. “How’s your balance?”
He clearly meant to walk along the edge of the fountain and Neuvillette frowned. “I could also do this,” he said and gestured. His element responded to him—it always did—and the waters of the fountain split.
Whistling in an expression that Neuvillette had learned to interpret as impressed, Wriothesley peered down into the fountain. Then he grinned at Neuvillette. “I was going to freeze the surface,” he said. “That way we wouldn’t have to climb up the other side again.”
“Oh,” Neuvillette said and with another gesture, the water returned to its place.
The cold scent of winter surrounded them and Wriothesley winked at Neuvillette as he activated his Vision. The surface of the water froze in a narrow path, wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast. Nonetheless, Wriothesley gestured for Neuvillette to precede him.
“Should you not walk beside me?” Neuvillette asked.
A startled look crossed Wriothesley’s face and Neuvillette wondered if he’d said something wrong. Then Wriothesley’s expression warmed slightly. “ Monsieur,” he teased, as he sometimes did. “How scandalous. For the Iudex to walk beside the Prison Administrator?”
“Who better than you?” Neuvillette returned. “Who more worthy?”
An expression that Neuvillette couldn’t name crossed Wriothesley’s face as quick as a bolt of lightning. Then it cleared and he smiled, but it was a soft, cruel, self-deprecating smile. “Why, anyone else.”
“And yet I choose you,” Neuvillette told him. “Shall we?”
In his experience, it was sometimes better to step without looking, to force action. With a low, aching chuckle, Wriothesley followed and stepped on the icy path beside him.
Winters in Fontaine weren’t as bad as other regions of Teyvat, but the ice could be a problem. Many times, Neuvillette had needed to rely on his cane to steady himself; if it was really that bad, he would sometimes make use of the backup rooms he kept in the Palais or the Opera, so that the citizens of Fontaine would not have to see their Chief Justice struggling to walk, as unsteady on his feet as a newborn fawn. Groups to shovel snow from walkways and lay down rock salt made walking easier, but the early morning hours or the period of time after the snow or ice had been laid down and before the crews were sent out to deal with it were often the worst times for Neuvillette’s dignity. His shoes had little grip, making it even more difficult for him to walk—dress shoes weren’t supposed to, for some reason.
A part of him worried that stepping on the ice of Wriothesley’s creation would be as dangerous, that he would embarrass himself by slipping, but by some quirk of its creation—perhaps because it was created with a Vision rather than by natural processes—it was sturdy and no more slippery than the roads after a rainstorm.
Wriothesley offered him a crooked smile when Neuvillette looked down at the ice, then up at him. “I wouldn’t let you fall,” he said and there was something about the way he said so, matter-of-fact and with enticing promise, that made something in Neuvillette fill with warmth.
They crossed the fountain and climbed up the lip of the next fountain and below them sprawled the main square and the Fountain of Lucine, filled with throngs of people. Members of the orchestra, dressed somberly in black, actors in suits and extravagant dresses, the audience that remained behind, street performers that made music to applause.
“Oh look,” Wriothesley said. “They’re still there.”
“Who?” Neuvillette asked and saw who he was talking about.
The young couple.
The young woman was still talking to the woman who had sat next to her while the young man with her lingered at her periphery, like a dog on a leash.
“I’m rooting for him,” Wriothesley said quietly, as if there was a chance that he’d be heard by anyone other than Neuvillette.
“How so?” Neuvillette asked.
Wriothesley looked at Neuvillette with a crooked little smile. “What do you mean?”
“Do you wish for his happiness?” Neuvillette asked. “Or do you hope that he…ah…’gets the girl’, like every hero’s happy ending?”
For a moment, Wriothesley seemed surprised, then laughed. “Who says he can’t have both?”
Neuvillette looked back at the quartet in the square. The other woman’s companion drew the young man into a conversation, but though he seemed to respond politely enough—there was no telling from so far away—the young man’s face was still turned toward the young woman, the way a flower followed the sun.
“Would he be happy with her?” he mused, almost to himself. “I had always wondered what happened after the story ended. Would that love last? Or would they drift apart? Humans are so short-lived that I cannot imagine…” he had no idea how to articulate his thoughts.
“I think he made his choice,” Wriothesley said. “And if he changes his mind, then that’s for him to decide.”
Neuvillette considered that. He couldn’t say that he understood that. There were so few things about human nature that he truly understood, after all. “I do not understand,” he admitted, as he knew that he could say to Wriothesley without judgment.
“Love itself is not a grand thing,” Wriothesley told him with all the kindness he claimed to lack. “To some, it is as easy as breathing.” He sighed a little wistfully. “That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt. You know what it’s like to breathe in the cold. How it sometimes aches. I heard that Dragonspine’s definition of ‘cold’ makes Fontainian winters seem tropical. Even the act of breathing there must feel like a battle for your life.” He looked at Neuvillette and laughed. “I’m rambling. I’m just saying that…well, I’m not sure.”
“We were talking about that young couple you’re obsessing about,” Neuvillette reminded him.
Wriothesley laughed. “I’m not obsessing over them,” he said. “But thank you for the reminder. I think that love for that young man is easy. And even if it breaks his heart to see her with another, I think that having her in his life is the most important thing to him. You can love without reciprocation, monsieur.”
It seemed that, once more, Wriothesley was speaking from personal experience. He peered at Wriothesley who watched the young couple almost wistfully.
“You speak of the one you harbor feelings for,” Neuvillette said, which was exactly what he had not meant to say. Even he knew that to speak such things out loud might be insensitive.
But things said out loud could not be unspoken, so he waited for Wriothesley’s response, prepared to offer an apology if his words had caused distress.
Wriothesley’s face twisted into something aching; when he smiled at Neuvillette, it was like he was twisting the knife in his own chest, a sentiment that Neuvillette hadn’t understood until that moment. “Yes,” he agreed simply.
“Is it worth it?” Neuvillette asked, then said quickly, “I apologize, that was rude of me. You are not required to share such…intimate thoughts with me.”
For a long moment, Wriothesley was quiet. He was one to speak his mind and one to be patient when Neuvillette struggled, so Neuvillette remained patient as well. At last, Wriothesley sighed, a long exhale that Neuvillette almost expected to trail smoke. Several of his staff were smokers and though he detested the smell he was not about to deny them their vices so long as they were proper about it. A few times he’d caught them taking a long inhale—a “drag”, movies and novels called it, and though he did not often understand human slang, there was something viscerally correct about that word—and breathe out as if the smoke carried all of their stress, all of their grievances.
That was how Wriothesley breathed out now.
Neuvillette wondered if he was a smoker. If he had been at some point.
Neuvillette knew that he was getting distracted and focused on Wriothesley’s tired expression.
“It is,” Wriothesley decided, eyes on the young couple. “It is.”
Neuvillette watched him, how for a moment Wriothesley’s boyish excitement faded and he only looked tired and drawn. Humans didn’t live forever and Wriothesley was beginning to show his age, stress and laughter and a hard life with bad habits were etching themselves into his body.
Neuvillette looked back at the young couple. The young man’s gaze continued to be magnetized to the young woman; the young woman remained oblivious.
“I do not understand,” Neuvillette said slowly. “But it is not for me to understand.” He hesitated. “I also do not understand…”
“Why him?” Wriothesley asked with a crooked little smile.
Neuvillette paused. “Him?”
“Is that a problem?” Wriothesley asked.
“It is not,” Neuvillette replied automatically. Because it wasn’t. It was irrelevant to him, what combination of people fell in love or lust with, so long as there was consent from all parties and everyone was of legal age. “I was just…surprised.”
Wriothesley looked at him with a peculiar expression. “Then why did you ask?”
“It surprised me,” Neuvillette said. “It is not something I knew about you.” He hesitated. Wriothesley had shared something intensely personal with him— several intensely personal things with him. Polite manners dictated that he should return something in kind.
And, if he was being honest, it wasn’t all his sense of propriety that encouraged him to share something.
“I enjoy learning these things about you,” Neuvillette said. “It brings me…” he struggled with words for a moment. “You are a very private person,” he said carefully. “And you hold many things close to your chest, as they say. It…pleases me that you find me trustworthy enough to tell me these things. If I were a dragon to hoard things, then perhaps it would be these things you choose to share with me.”
Wriothesley’s expression was difficult to read. Perhaps it would be difficult to read for the average human, as well. Perhaps even Clorinde, who Wriothesley was rather close to, or Sigewinne, with whom he spent much of his time with.
Perhaps Neuvillette was looking too much into it.
“I would have thought that you would hoard legal codexes,” Wriothesley said after a moment. His pause was deliberately long. “If you were one to hoard.”
I know what you are, the words that remained unsaid told Neuvillette.
Clever man. Neuvillette was pleased. He always appreciated cleverness.
I do not turn from you knowing this, Wriothesley’s eyes said. I do not think less of you for not being human, nor do I think too much of you for your inhumanness.
“Perhaps that,” Neuvillette agreed, thinking of his office, full of the laws of Fontaine, their histories, and their amendments. He thought of his modest townhome, which was cluttered full of books detailing the laws of Teyvat. “Or, perhaps that would be the hoard that I would tell everyone about. But, in secret, I would have another hoard.”
Wriothesley’s smile was hooked. “You honor me, Neuvillette,” he said. “But why me?”
“You are kind,” Neuvillette said. “In your situation, it would have been easy to be cruel but you are not. It would be easy to crave power and dominion but you do not. You are honest and you do not fear me.”
“Who could fear you?” Wriothesley asked and, from anyone else, it might be insulting.
Neuvillette considered the question. “Those that I pass on the street that look away, as if afraid that I can see their crimes through their eyes,” he said.
“Perhaps they are looking at me,” Wriothesley laughed. “Or rather, trying to avoid me. The Monster of Meropide.”
“Certainly not,” Neuvillette said. “Your device is a wolf.”
Wriothesley laughed and some of the lightness to him returned. Most of it was fake, but it relieved Neuvillette nonetheless. They stood there, at the edge of a fountain perched in a seemingly-inaccessible area of the Opera Epiclese, and looked out over the square.
Their silence was comfortable, despite what had recently transpired. Neuvillette realized that he was never really uncomfortable around Wriothesley. There were secrets that they kept from each other, certainly, but it was a fact of life that neither took seriously.
Without looking at him, Neuvillette knew that Wriothesley watched the young couple. The young woman’s new friend left with her companion, arm hooked through his, and made their way toward the aquabus station. They spoke. The young man reached for her and she let him pat her shoulder before pinching his cheek affectionately. She grabbed his hand and dragged him along and Neuvillette wondered what she was doing, if she was playing with his heart.
As if he had asked that question out loud—and he hadn’t—Wriothesley said, “She is oblivious to him.”
“Do you think it’s still good for him to chase after her?” Neuvillette asked.
“Oh, there is always a concern about hurting yourself,” Wriothesley said softly, almost too softly to be heard over the bubbling of the fountains near them, over the sound of revelry. “But isn’t pain a part of life?”
Neuvillette considered that. “From a certain point of view, perhaps,” Neuvillette said at last. “However, should it hurt?” He paused and said, “I’m sure that Sigewinne would not like to know that you view pain as a necessary part of life.”
“Snitches get stitches,” Wriothesley said with a mirthless little laugh.
“The injured get stitches, if the wound warrants it,” Neuvillette corrected.
Wriothesley gave him a crooked smile. “That’s the joke,” he explained.
“I see,” Neuvillette said, though he really didn’t. “However, I do not understand why you believe that…” He looked down. “Is love not supposed to be a wonderful thing?”
“Even with its pain, isn’t it still beautiful?” Wriothesley countered.
Neuvillette turned to look at him with a frown. “Who hurt you in such a way that you crave that pain?” he asked, unsure why he felt so…distressed by it. “Why is it a requirement that love must hurt?”
A bleak look crossed Wriothesley’s face and Neuvillette realized that he was being allowed to see such an expression. Though it caused something unidentifiable in him to ache like a physical pain, Neuvillette was honored to be allowed to see such a rare, fragile thing. “Because it is better to have him in my life in any capacity,” he said, “than not at all.”
Suddenly, Neuvillette was…angry. No, not quite angry, not the burning, hissing things he’d seen in court. But there was certainly fury there, something that made him want to bare his teeth and claws, to defend that precious, tender heart that Wriothesley so viciously protected.
That Wriothesley held out so carelessly to be destroyed.
Immediately, Neuvillette reined himself in. “I have no right to comment,” he said, and looked out over the square to center himself. If he looked at Wriothesley, he would only become angry. “Nor do I believe that I have any right to attempt to sway your decision. For me to ask if he’s worth it is not my place. However…I wish to express my concern.”
For a long moment, Wriothesley said nothing and the silence between them trembled like the strumming of some kind of instrument.
“Noted,” Wriothesley said.
Irrationally, Neuvillette wanted to pace. The water in the fountains around them thrummed, echoing as if with whalesong but it was only Neuvillette’s own…whatever it was he was feeling. At least it wasn’t raining, though it may later.
Hopefully it would be well after Wriothesley returned to Meropide. Neuvillette was certain that he had his sources to report on the weather, but he was hardly one to comment on it directly if he wasn’t there with Neuvillette to witness it himself.
Nor was Neuvillette naive enough to believe that Wriothesley couldn’t sense it now.
“This person that you love,” Neuvillette said, unsure why the thought was so insulting to him. “Do they not love you back? Or have you not asked?”
Wriothesley gave him a peculiar look. “Why would he love me?” he asked simply.
“Why not?” Neuvillette asked back. “What about you isn’t worthy of love? The kindness you deny, your strength, your cleverness, your bravery. You are loyal and just and a better man that I will ever be, no matter that I am several hundred years older than you. I cannot comment on your…physical attributes—I admit that I am not as familiar with the way humans determine attractiveness—but I cannot see why…”
He was angry. Agitated. Some mix of the two.
He was jealous , he realized. It boiled in his gut like wet tar, thick and gritty like oil.
“Forgive me,” he said and looked away.
Neuvillette looked out over the gathering. Members of the orchestra drifted off into the night, some of them carrying their instrument in their somber black cases. One of them had one that was highly decorated with colorful stickers. Several of the street musicians appeared to be packing up as well, though some continued strongly while people continued to linger.
He caught sight of the young man but not the young woman. His head was bowed near the Fountain of Lucine and he looked so small and alone. Neuvillette supposed that he was. As if everything of him had been given to his companion who could not even stay behind with him.
“I overstepped,” Neuvillette said into the silence between them. “My apologies.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Wriothesley said after a long moment. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re not sorry.”
“I have said my piece,” Neuvillette said. “Your personal business is your own, no matter how much or how little you choose to share it with me.”
They were silent again, but a heavy… thing fell over them. A “wet blanket”, Neuvillette had heard someone say once. At the time, he wasn’t sure what that meant. That had been well before Wriothesley, so Neuvillette had never gotten a satisfactory answer.
Suddenly, he could understand in a sudden and visceral way.
By mutual agreement, they turned back around and Wriothesley froze them a bridge again, which they crossed. Wriothesley hopped down first and turned, offering a hand to Neuvillette, and without thinking Neuvillette took it, jumping down into his arms.
Wriothesley caught his hips and Neuvillette rested his hands on Wriothesley’s shoulders and when they parted, Neuvillette truly cursed the cold for the first time in his very long life.
“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette said and he turned back around at the sound of his name. Something stretched between them as fine and delicate as spidersilk. “Who is this person that has stolen your heart?”
Wriothesley’s smile didn’t reach his eyes and his laugh was dry and mirthless. “Someone so beyond me that I may as well pray to the archons for a date.” Unable to help it, Neuvillette growled. The tension in Wriothesley’s eyes and shoulders relaxed slightly, almost fondly. “Relax,” he said quietly, wearily. “I’m not that desperate.” His smile was ragged. “Why, Neuvillette? Did you want my heart for your hoard as well?”
The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Yes.
He wanted it more than anything.
It was such a peculiar thought, a truth that had sunk deep into his bones without him noticing. Now, there was no separating him from it.
“Only if it’s freely given,” Neuvillette said.
Wriothesley’s face went blank. “Impartial, yes,” he said tightly. “But I never took you for cruel, monsieur.”
“Cruel?” Neuvillette asked. “Tell me how.” He stepped closer, but Wriothesley took a step back. Neuvillette stopped. He took a step back, then walked to his coat and cane. “Forgive me,” he said, his chest aching. “I know that I have…overstepped. To an alarming degree. Please let me know what reparations I may make—through an intermediary, if you feel the need.” He shrugged into his coat but didn’t fasten it and gripped his cane. “I take my leave, Your Grace.”
“Wait,” Wriothesley said when he reached for the nearly-invisible handle of the door leading back inside. He paused. “Fuck. What are you talking about?”
Neuvillette stared at the door. It was painted gray, with some kind of lighter spray, or perhaps paint applied just so, to give it the passing impression of stone from a distance; up close, it looked hideous. “I have overstepped,” he repeated. “You made it very clear. It was…inappropriate of me to make such…to ask…” He swallowed and lifted a hand to press it to his chest. It felt as if something had been carved out of him.
Love itself is not a grand thing. To some, it is as easy as breathing, Wriothesley had said. That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.
Despite his large, heavy-looking boots, Wriothesley could walk as silently as a cat. A normal human might not have been able to hear him, but Neuvillette had always been attuned to him. To his comings and goings, to his movements, to the words he spoke out loud and the things that remained unsaid.
Wriothesley stood beside him. “You said that you would keep a hoard of me,” he said a little hoarsely. “And now you want my heart for that hoard. Why?”
Unsure what to say, Neuvillette said nothing.
“You asked who it was that had my heart,” Wriothesley said. “Why?”
Whoever had painted the door had painted over the hinges. They must have had to go back and cut it open so that the door could open.
Neuvillette thought back to the young man, whose face followed the young woman like a flower followed the sun. He thought about how the young woman had always turned away from him, using her shoulders and body to close him off. Body language that Wriothesley could read that Neuvillette didn’t understand.
He turned his shoulder, then looked at Wriothesley because despite his transgressions, he didn’t want to close Wriothesley off. As impassive as his face may have been to nearly everyone else, he was an open book to Wriothesley.
Their eyes met. It was dark save for the glittering lights in the fountains. On the other side of the Opera, music continued to play.
“Why do you have this hoard of me?” Wriothesley asked softly.
“Because everything of you is precious to me,” Neuvillette said.
Wriothesley stepped forward. “Why is that?”
“I do not know,” Neuvillette said. “I do not understand why, just that it is. Our conversation tonight…was illuminating in that regard.”
“I see,” Wriothesley said. “You are quite intelligent, monsieur; surely you have a guess? Humor this lowly one.”
Neuvillette turned to look at Wriothesley. At first glance, he looked like he was completely relaxed, leaning against the wall but exposure to Wriothesley allowed Neuvillette to see the way he was tense, the set of his smile a little forced.
“‘Lowly one’?” he echoed. “Had I not made it very clear that such low opinions of yourself—of parroting similar thoughts—goes against everything I know of you? Low-born, louse, unworthy. These things you call yourself go against everything that you truly are.”
“And what am I?” Wriothesley challenged.
What, indeed?
Neuvillette very carefully considered his answer. “A dear companion,” he said. “Someone in whom I feel that I may confide in. Someone that I care very deeply for. Someone that I would have in my life in any capacity that he might allow, rather than not at all.”
It was difficult to read the expression on Wriothesley’s face.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The sound of revelry from the Fountain of Lucine was dying down. It sounded like more and more of the street musicians were putting away their instruments.
“I believe that I had already extolled your many desirable qualities several times throughout the night,” Neuvillette said. “Surely it must be evident now, in light of this conversation and my own jealousy of this… person to whom you are willing to give your heart, what I believe you to be.”
Wriothesley watched his face. “You do not lie,” he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself.
“I do not,” Neuvillette confirmed. “I find it to be a waste of words and effort.”
“You were jealous earlier,” Wriothesley said.
Though it wasn’t quite a question, Neuvillette responded anyway. “Yes. I had been jealous all evening of this person with whom you are so enamored with.” He paused. “I had simply not been…aware of it until this moment.”
“There is no need to be jealous of yourself,” Wriothesley said with a deliberate nonchalance that belied the tense set of his shoulders. “Surely you had to have guessed that it was you?”
The idea was laughable. Neuvillette thought that Wriothesley must have been joking but just in case he wasn’t, he made no comment and gave no reaction to the statement other than, “To have guessed that your description of your…beloved was me would be rather vain of me. I admit that I am not perfect and thus subject to my own…style of vanity, but I do not believe that I am quite so vain as to imagine myself where I may not be welcome.”
For a long moment, they watched each other, two unfamiliar animals circling warily.
Which was unfair, given their closeness.
Their history.
“If a heart were a tangible thing,” Wriothesley said slowly, “then I would have given it to you a long time ago.”
Neuvillette hummed. “A heart is a muscle,” he said. “And a vital organ; thus, it is a ‘tangible thing’. Please refrain from giving away something that would deprive the world of your presence.” He paused. “That was a joke,” he added, in case it wasn’t clear.
Throwing his head back, Wriothesley laughed. There was a hint of hysteria to it as well as what Neuvillette thought might be a sense of relief.
“Your presence is desired,” Neuvillette said carefully. “I am aware that…such thoughts are difficult to combat. But there are people in the world that enjoy your presence here.”
“I’m not suicidal,” Wriothesley said, sounding perplexed.
“I believe that,” Neuvillette replied. “But the way that you spoke of yourself, as if you are what others believe you to be…I wanted you to know that you are more than that. You are desired.”
Wriothesley stepped closer. “By who?” he asked.
“Whom,” Neuvillette corrected automatically. “By Sigewinne and Clorinde, who I know enjoy your company.” He paused. “By myself. Because I am a greedy dragon and I would hoard all of you that I am given.”
Cautiously, Wriothesley stepped closer. Neuvillette turned further so that Wriothesley wouldn’t think that he was excluding him, as the young woman had excluded her companion.
“May I kiss you?” From the way that Wriothesley blinked, that had not been what he had wanted to say.
“You will find me…unacquainted with such actions,” Neuvillette said. “However…I am amenable to learning these things. With you.”
Smiling crookedly, something like relief relaxing the tension in his eyes, Wriothesley stepped forward. Neuvillette rested a hand on his hip, his thumb finding the jut of his iliac crest even through the thick clothes he wore to ward off the evening chill.
“For the record,” Wriothesley said as he cleaned close. His breath smelled like the tea that Wriothesley had drunk after the dinner they had shared. “I suppose that you have always had my heart; you’ve just never known.”
Neuvillette hummed. “And now that I do,” he said, his lips brushing against Wriothesley’s. “It is my most prized item of my hoard.”
Laughing breathlessly, Wriothesley closed the last, miniscule distance between them and their lips met fully. It seemed that smiles were contagious through the touch of lips.
Pulling Wriothesley closer, thumbing the curve of his iliac crests beneath his hands, Neuvillette wondered what other things may be conveyed through a kiss.