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It had rained every day that week.
Not the kind of rain that spoke of fresh beginnings, the whisper of spring’s breath over Fontaine’s marbled spires. No, this rain lingered—sodden, shrouding, relentless. As if the heavens themselves mourned something unnamed, aching in silence. As if the Chief Justice’s heart had cracked just slightly, and the skies had not yet learned how to stop bleeding on his behalf.
Neuvillette stood alone beneath the great glass-paneled ceiling of the Opera Epiclese, gazing upward. Each droplet pattered like a warning, delicate and damning. He could feel the citizens below muttering about his mood, as they always did—silly, stupid superstitions about how the rain reflected him.
But today… today, they weren’t wrong.
He had been cold all day. And not in the way of water or logic or detachment—but in the way of absence. The aching sort. The one that starts in the ribs and spreads until your own body feels too foreign to inhabit. Until even breath is an offense.
And still—he fulfilled every duty. Every hearing. Every pause between testimonies. Every nod. Every law that felt more like a noose than a guideline.
He was so tired.
And when dusk slipped in like a velvet rope, tangling the sky in lavender and slate, he allowed himself a single mercy: he walked.
Not toward the Palais Mermonia. Not toward home.
But down, into the belly of Fontaine. Where the fog curled like smoke against old stone, where the air grew thick with the scent of metal, sweat, and something sharp he hadn’t named.
The Fortress of Meropide.
He’d visited more than a dozen times since the incident with Childe. Wriothesley always welcomed him with a grin too casual for the steel and shadows that surrounded them. And every time, Neuvillette told himself it was about jurisdiction. About diligence. About order.
But tonight, he told himself nothing at all.
He simply appeared, soaked through and silent, at the edge of the elevator shaft. The guards straightened and glanced at one another—no one questioned him. They never did. Even if his hair was clinging to his cheek like ivy and his eyes were pale as drowning moonlight.
Even if he looked like something hollowed.
The doors opened. The descent began.
---
Wriothesley looked up when the lift chimed.
He had been reading over documents with the reluctant attention of a man who preferred punching over paperwork, a cup of dark tea cradled in one hand. His coat was half-off, his shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled past his elbows—casual and bruised and beautiful in a way that should have been illegal.
Neuvillette stepped forward, water dripping in a soft trail behind him.
“Neuv,” Wriothesley said, voice somewhere between surprise and warmth, rising from his desk. “You look like the sky spit you out.”
Neuvillette blinked. “That is… not far from the truth.”
Wriothesley crossed the room in a few quick strides and paused in front of him, his smile faltering when he looked closer. “Hey,” he said, quiet now. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The Chief Justice looked away, then added, “I simply grew tired of being among people who cannot see past the robes.”
“Then why come here?” Wriothesley asked, not unkindly.
Neuvillette met his gaze, and something in his throat caught. The Duke’s eyes were not soft. They were not cruel. They were true.
“I do not know,” he whispered. “Perhaps I forgot how to be alone without drowning.”
And just like that, Wriothesley reached for him—not brusque, not eager, just there. His hand landed on Neuvillette’s shoulder, warm and firm and grounding.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me get you dry. You’re freezing.”
---
They didn’t speak for a while.
Wriothesley led him through a private corridor that Neuvillette hadn’t seen before, into a room that felt half-lair, half-den. There was a hearth here, and thick blankets, and leather furniture that smelled faintly of cedar. It was so unlike the stone and cold halls of justice that Neuvillette almost stepped back out of instinct.
But Wriothesley was already fetching towels and muttering about his tea going cold, and so the Chief Justice allowed himself to shed his coat, his gloves, the wet silk that clung to his arms.
Wriothesley handed him a towel. Their fingers brushed.
The moment lingered.
“I’m told I’m a poor judge of when I need rest,” Neuvillette said softly, toweling his hair. “But I have… found it easier lately to admit when I’m unraveling.”
Wriothesley’s eyes flicked over him. “You don't unravel,” he said, voice low. “You break beautifully.”
The words hit like thunder in a still pond.
Neuvillette went very still.
“I apologize,” Wriothesley said quickly. “That was—too much.”
“No,” Neuvillette interrupted. “No. You… you see more than I wish you to. And yet, I cannot find it in myself to regret that.”
Wriothesley looked at him with something molten in his expression. “Then don’t regret it.”
They stood in silence again, tension curling in the air like steam.
And then, slowly—perhaps too slowly—Wriothesley stepped forward and placed a hand on Neuvillette’s cheek. His thumb traced along the curve of a raindrop, down to the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have to be perfect here,” he said. “You don’t even have to speak. Just… let me hold some of it. You carry too much.”
Neuvillette felt something in his chest fracture. Softly. Willingly.
“You must know that this… comfort… it is dangerous,” he said, almost breathless. “More than I should allow.”
Wriothesley didn’t move away. “Then let it be dangerous,” he whispered. “I can take it.”
---
That night, Neuvillette did not return to the Opera Epiclese.
He stayed. Stayed through the quiet murmur of clothes stripped away—not lewd, not rushed, just the gentle promise of skin. Of warmth. Of proximity. He stayed through the scent of Wriothesley’s sheets—spiced and lived-in and intimate in a way that made his eyes sting.
And he stayed through the embrace.
Wriothesley held him like they had done this a thousand times. Like Neuvillette had always belonged here. Like something sacred.
“You’re allowed,” Wriothesley murmured, mouth against Neuvillette’s damp temple, “to need someone.”
Neuvillette’s breath hitched.
And finally, for the first time in what felt like centuries, he slept.
In someone’s arms.
In the hush of something almost like love.
---
When Neuvillette woke, it was still dark.
Not the false twilight of courtrooms or the aching grey of midday rain—but real darkness, velvet and thick, woven around him like cloth. He lay still, half-convinced he was dreaming. His cheek pressed into the warm hollow of Wriothesley’s chest, the rise and fall of it steady as waves. A heartbeat beneath his ear. Skin beneath his palm. The scent of salt and ash and faint tea.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. That was rare. Even in moments of forced rest, sleep came to him like a reluctant servant—hovering, uneasy, vanishing at the slightest twitch of guilt or duty. But here, wrapped in the low hum of warmth and breath and presence, he had simply drifted. As if someone had poured him into silence and watched him settle.
His body was loose. Soft. A little too honest. And Wriothesley…
Wriothesley was still holding him.
One arm was curled protectively around Neuvillette’s waist, hand splayed across the small of his back like he was afraid he might disappear if not kept close. His other hand rested over Neuvillette’s wrist, thumb faintly brushing his pulse.
The gesture was unconscious. Repeated. Intimate in a way that felt like an echo from another life.
Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, wielder of old magic and older law, a creature forged from ocean depths and duty—had no idea what to do with that.
So he stayed still. Breathing shallowly. Letting the moment wash over him without trying to name it.
It was dangerous.
Wriothesley stirred.
“Mmh,” the Duke mumbled, voice rough and low. He tightened his grip slightly before blinking blearily down at him. “You’re still here.”
“I… am.”
Wriothesley smiled. Sleepy. Disarmed. “Good.”
Neuvillette lowered his gaze, his voice barely audible. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“I don’t care.”
Silence bloomed. Wriothesley didn’t release him. And Neuvillette didn’t pull away.
He should have. Every fiber of self-preservation told him so. This—this softness, this raw proximity—it frayed the edges of everything he had carefully built. The persona. The distance. The pristine marble mask of impartiality. No one touched him like this. No one dared.
But Wriothesley did. Gently. Without presumption. Without permission—and yet somehow, with more consent than anyone else had ever asked for.
“I’m not used to this,” Neuvillette admitted, voice quiet. “I do not often… stay.”
Wriothesley hummed, not judgmental, just thoughtful. “And yet you did.”
“Yes.” A beat. “That worries me.”
Wriothesley chuckled, low and warm. “Because it felt good?”
“Because it felt human.”
Wriothesley didn’t answer right away. He shifted instead, propping himself slightly on one elbow, looking down at Neuvillette like he was trying to memorize the curve of him.
“You are human,” he said eventually, voice steadier than it had any right to be. “Even if no one sees it.”
Neuvillette blinked up at him. “I’m not certain that’s true.”
Wriothesley leaned in, slow, deliberate, his hand lifting to tuck a silver strand of hair behind Neuvillette’s ear. His fingers lingered against his cheek. “Then let me remind you.”
Neuvillette’s breath caught—not because the words were suggestive (they were), not because the touch was careful (it was), but because something inside him ached with the wanting of it.
To be reminded. To be known. To be allowed.
He turned his head slightly, resting his temple against Wriothesley’s hand. And for a moment—just a moment—he let himself want.
---
They didn’t kiss. Not then.
It would have been easy to fall into it. The air was thick with unsaid things, and Wriothesley’s mouth was right there—curved, warm, willing. But Neuvillette wasn’t ready. Not for that. Not for the tipping point that might come with it.
Instead, they sat up slowly, wordlessly.
Wriothesley handed him a clean robe and didn’t ask questions when Neuvillette hesitated before taking it. Didn’t comment on the way Neuvillette lingered by the hearth, half-wrapped in fabric, watching the flames with a faraway look.
“You okay?” Wriothesley asked eventually, keeping his voice light but not flippant.
Neuvillette nodded. “There is… quiet in me this morning. It’s unfamiliar.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No. But it is a vulnerable one.”
Wriothesley poured them both tea, the clink of porcelain the only sound for a few moments. When he passed Neuvillette the cup, their fingers brushed again—brief, but heavy.
“Vulnerability doesn’t make you weak,” Wriothesley said, gaze steady. “Just real.”
Neuvillette looked at him over the rim of his cup. “And if I’m tired of being real?”
Wriothesley shrugged. “Then be tired. Be quiet. Be angry or soft or selfish. Just… be something for you. You’ve earned that.”
Neuvillette’s throat closed.
And he realized—this was why he came. Not for escape. Not even for comfort. But for this small, unbearable truth: that in Wriothesley’s presence, he was allowed to be more than the roles carved into his bones.
Allowed to be a man.
A body.
A heart.
---
The day passed gently.
Wriothesley stayed near but didn’t hover, giving him space in the most respectful sense of the word. They moved through the Fortress’s private wing without urgency—Neuvillette observing the mundane rhythm of Wriothesley’s life like it was something sacred.
He watched him train with gloves off, sweat-slick and alive, muscle rippling beneath bruised skin. Watched him laugh with a guard over a botched sparring technique. Watched him drink cold water straight from a tin cup and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
It should have been unremarkable.
It wasn’t.
Every ordinary moment felt like proof of something Neuvillette had long since forgotten: that life could be small and warm and chosen.
When Wriothesley finally flopped down beside him on the leather couch, smelling faintly of effort and iron and citrus soap, Neuvillette turned his head without thinking.
“Your life is very… full,” he said softly.
Wriothesley shrugged. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine.”
“I envy that.”
Wriothesley’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I was made to serve,” Neuvillette murmured, more to himself than to anyone. “Made to exist as justice embodied. There is no version of me that belongs to myself. Not really.”
“You could change that.”
“How?”
Wriothesley looked at him—long and quiet and devastatingly sincere.
“Start by letting someone love the part you are.”
Silence again.
Heavy.
Hopeful.
Terrifying.
Neuvillette set his cup down carefully. His hands were trembling.
“Would that be you?” he asked, very low.
Wriothesley didn’t flinch. “It already is.”
---
That night, Neuvillette didn’t sleep right away.
He lay in Wriothesley’s bed again, the room dark, the silence soft, the sheets warmer than he expected. But instead of closing his eyes, he watched the ceiling. Listened to Wriothesley’s slow breathing.
“I am still afraid,” he whispered, unsure if Wriothesley was awake.
“I know,” came the reply, quiet and drowsy.
“You shouldn’t have to carry that.”
“I want to.”
Neuvillette turned toward him. The dark made it easier. Made the words less fragile. “Then promise you won’t expect anything I can’t give.”
Wriothesley reached blindly until their hands met. Twined their fingers.
“I won’t ask for anything you don’t want to offer,” he said. “But I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
Neuvillette squeezed his hand.
Not tightly. Just… enough.
He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say I’m sorry.
But in the hush that followed, the rain above Fontaine finally stopped.
And that—perhaps—was enough.
---
The rain didn’t return the next day.
Fontaine was eerily still, as if the skies themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something impossible. In the Fortress of Meropide, the world felt suspended. No judgment. No audience. No storm but the ones they carried quietly inside themselves.
Neuvillette didn’t leave.
That, in itself, was a rebellion.
He woke in the same bed—disoriented at first by the warmth of another body, by the sunlight caught in the windowpanes, by the unfamiliar softness of linen not his own. But he did not rise. Did not run.
Wriothesley was already up, his side of the bed cold. Neuvillette sat up slowly, bones singing with the ache of stillness, and for a moment, simply existed in the echo of last night’s words.
“Then start by letting someone love the part you are.”
No one had ever said such a thing to him. Not like that. Not without strings or subtle manipulation. Not without hoping to gain something from the fact that he was more than man. Not less.
He dressed slowly. Let himself linger over small luxuries—the steam of hot water against his skin, the glide of a comb through silver hair, the feel of Wriothesley’s robe still folded neatly where he had left it.
When he emerged, the Duke was sitting at the table with two cups of coffee and a disheveled stack of morning reports.
“You read these before breakfast?” Neuvillette asked mildly.
Wriothesley looked up, grinning a little. “What can I say? Crime doesn’t take a day off just because I’m having an existential crisis with a sea-dragon.”
Neuvillette exhaled something that could almost be denial. Or laughter. “I am not—”
“Not a dragon?” Wriothesley tilted his head. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
Neuvillette rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch.
Wriothesley pushed one of the coffee mugs across the table. “Drink. You need it.”
Neuvillette accepted. His fingers brushed Wriothesley’s again—deliberately this time.
They said nothing about it.
---
It was easy to fall into rhythm. That surprised him.
He had always assumed intimacy would feel invasive. Like pressure. Like being carved open. But with Wriothesley, it was the opposite: like being left alone with company.
Somehow, impossibly, they both understood silence.
They walked the corridors of the Fortress together, not touching, not speaking—but present. Wriothesley would point things out with subtle glances: a dripping pipe he needed to fix, a wall that’d been scrubbed clean after a scuffle, a guard who blushed and looked away as they passed. Neuvillette made note of everything. Not as Chief Justice. Just… as a man noticing a man’s world.
And later, when they sat side by side on a bench overlooking the lower levels, Wriothesley finally broke the silence.
“You’re quieter than usual.”
Neuvillette arched a brow. “I’m always quiet.”
“This is a different kind of quiet,” Wriothesley said. “It’s not cold. Not… sealed.”
Neuvillette looked out over the stone expanse, the soft orange light catching on the edges of rusted railings and machinery. “It’s reflection.”
“About what?”
“A question,” he said. “A very old one.”
Wriothesley leaned back. “Let me guess. What is the value of mercy? Or the origin of justice? Or maybe: What defines a soul?”
“No.” Neuvillette’s voice was barely a murmur. “It’s simpler. What does it mean to be known?”
Wriothesley stilled.
Neuvilitte continued, gaze distant. “I have worn this face for centuries. Passed judgments. Upheld law. And still I do not understand the weight of my own name on someone else's tongue. I do not know what it means to be seen, not as a symbol, but as a being. A person.”
Wriothesley didn’t answer right away. Then:
“I see you.”
Neuvillette turned to him. Slowly.
“I see you,” Wriothesley repeated, softer now. “And it’s not just because of what you are, or what you’ve done. It’s because when you think no one’s watching, you lean into sunlight like it might forgive you. Because you speak to the Melusines with reverence. Because your silence is full of grief, and you try to carry it alone.”
Neuvillette swallowed.
“I see you,” Wriothesley said again, voice rough. “And I care. Not in spite of it. Because of it.”
Neuvillette’s breath trembled in his chest. His hands curled in his lap.
“I don’t know how to accept that,” he whispered.
“That’s okay,” Wriothesley said. “I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying it’s there.”
Neuvillette closed his eyes.
Let the words in.
Let them ache.
---
That night, he couldn’t stay in the bed alone.
He found Wriothesley still awake, shirtless, the collar of a linen shirt unbuttoned and his hair loose from its tie. The air between them hummed with something tender and dangerous.
“I can’t sleep,” Neuvillette confessed.
Wriothesley didn’t say anything. Just lifted the blanket.
Neuvillette climbed in. Settled against him slowly. Chest to chest. One hand flat over Wriothesley’s heart.
Neither of them moved.
Until Wriothesley whispered, barely audible, “Do you want me to touch you?”
Neuvillette didn’t breathe.
He wasn’t sure if it was fear or longing that knotted in his throat—but he nodded. Once. Then again, slower.
Wriothesley’s touch was reverent.
He traced fingertips down Neuvillette’s jaw, over the slope of his neck, across his collarbone like he was trying to learn him. Not with hunger. Not with urgency. But with care. With awe.
Neuvillette trembled.
“I’m not fragile,” he said softly.
“No,” Wriothesley murmured. “You’re precious.”
Neuvillette let out a sound that was almost a sob, and Wriothesley caught it—cradled him closer, buried his face against his throat and just held him.
No more words were spoken.
But something shifted between them.
A tide turning.
A truth too beautiful to be spoken aloud.
---
In the morning, Wriothesley was the one trembling.
Not obviously. But Neuvillette felt it. The way he lingered over breakfast. The way his knuckles went white as he read the same page twice.
So Neuvillette asked, gently, “What is it?”
Wriothesley didn’t answer at first.
Then: “You’re not the only one who’s scared of being known.”
Neuvillette blinked.
Wriothesley kept his eyes on the table. “I’ve done things I don’t talk about. Been things I’m not proud of. The Fortress—this place—it’s my redemption story. But not everyone forgives a man for needing to be redeemed.”
Neuvillette reached across the table, laid his hand over Wriothesley’s.
Warm. Steady.
“I do,” he said.
Wriothesley looked up. His eyes were glassy.
“I forgive you,” Neuvilitte said again. “Even if you haven’t yet.”
And for the first time, Wriothesley leaned into him.
And Neuvillette held him like he’d never let go.
---
The Fortress breathed around them.
Not with life, exactly—no birdsong or rustling leaves, no tide shifting—but with a quiet, human sort of rhythm. The clink of distant cups. Soft leather boots over metal walkways. Echoes of low conversation, swallowed quickly by stone. It was a place built not to nurture, but to contain. And yet, in a darkened room just beneath the surface of the earth, something was growing.
Not wild. Not fast. But real.
Neuvillette no longer left at sunrise.
That first day, he had lingered out of curiosity. The second, out of reflection. The third—because when he stood at the door, ready to go, Wriothesley had looked up from the rim of his mug and said nothing at all.
And that silence had broken him.
It was not a silence of cold indifference. It was a silence that pleaded. A silence that knew how not to beg.
So Neuvillette had stayed.
And now, staying had become habit.
They never spoke of what they were. There was no need. It hung between them in the careful way Wriothesley brewed his tea stronger, because Neuvillette never took sugar. In the way Neuvillette let his fingers rest, briefly, against Wriothesley’s back when he passed by. In the way their bedsheets, once shared in sleep only, became the meeting place of silence and breath, and the occasional, barely-there touch.
Wriothesley never pushed.
He could have. Easily. There were nights when Neuvillette leaned too close. When he held his breath too long. When he sat in the Duke’s lap as though it were nothing, sprawled over his thigh with some report in hand, the air between them thick and wanting.
But Wriothesley didn’t close the space.
He waited.
And Neuvillette loved him for it.
He did not know what to do with that realization.
Love. What a word. He had lived centuries beneath it. Had ruled, judged, listened to mortals wail it at one another in court and cry it to the skies during sentencing. He had watched love, marveled at it like a creature of another plane. And now it sat in his chest like a stone warmed by the sea. Heavy. Unmovable. Comforting.
He loved him.
He did not say it.
He wasn’t ready.
But he stayed.
---
They kissed, finally, on a day that didn’t deserve it.
There was nothing romantic about it. No orchestration of fate. No sun-drenched balcony. No silver violin bowing a wistful melody in the background. Just tension. Just weariness. Just two men who had held themselves still for too long.
It happened like this:
A minor riot. An argument between inmates, turned brawl. The kind that left bruises but no graves. Wriothesley had handled it, his sleeves rolled, jaw tight, blood smudged on the corner of his mouth—not his own.
Neuvillette had watched him return to the upper levels without ceremony. Head bowed. Breathing hard.
“You’re bleeding,” Neuvillette said, because it was the only thing he could think to say. It wasn’t true, and they both knew it.
Wriothesley chuckled, then winced. “They got me good, huh?”
Neuvillette stepped forward. Reached up. Wiped the blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. Slowly. Delicately. Like he was dabbing at the lips of a statue, afraid to mar what already lived in marble.
Wriothesley didn’t move.
“Neuvillette.”
His name was gravel.
The Iudex looked up.
They stood too close.
And then they weren’t standing at all.
He kissed him first.
Neuvillette. The Iudex. The one who had held himself above the storms. Who had resisted every mortal impulse. Who had built his loneliness into doctrine. He kissed him like a confession. Like a man cracking open his own chest and offering the sea inside.
Wriothesley made a sound that was part groan, part surrender.
His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once—hovering, trembling, finally settling on Neuvillette’s waist like he’d been waiting years to earn the right. He didn’t deepen the kiss. He let it be. Gentle. Sweet. One mouth opening carefully against the other, like the shape of trust itself.
Neuvillette’s fingers curled in the fabric of Wriothesley’s shirt.
He trembled.
Not from fear.
From relief.
When he finally pulled away—barely, barely—his lips still brushing Wriothesley’s, he said nothing.
Just breathed.
Just was.
Wriothesley touched his cheek. Thumb feather-light over the ridge of his jaw. “Was that okay?”
Neuvillette nodded. Once. Then again.
“Do you want to stop?”
A pause.
A breath.
“No.”
That was all it took.
The second kiss wasn’t tentative.
It was soft, yes, but full. Certain. As if having tasted the shape of each other’s surrender, they knew now the way their hearts beat in harmony. Neuvillette sighed into him. Wriothesley kissed the sound from his throat, open-mouthed, reverent, slow as tide against shore.
There was heat. But it was not vulgar. Not yet.
Just hands. Mouths. A heady ache.
Wanting.
---
They didn’t go further that night.
There was a shift. A new tenderness in the way Wriothesley pulled him into bed. In the way Neuvillette rested his head on the Duke’s chest without shame, listening to the steady rhythm beneath skin and bone.
“You’re quiet,” Wriothesley murmured.
“You say that often.”
“You always are. But tonight you’re… different.”
Neuvillette hesitated.
Then, softly: “I am trying to understand something.”
“What’s that?”
Neuvillette traced idle circles on Wriothesley’s ribs, fingers barely pressing. “How it’s possible to want someone so much without losing myself. To let someone in—and not become less.”
Wriothesley stilled beneath him. Then: “Maybe it’s because you were never meant to be whole alone.”
Neuvillette didn’t answer. But he curled in closer. Let Wriothesley’s warmth soak into his skin like rain on stone. He didn’t cry.
But something in him finally let go.
---
In the morning, they didn’t speak of it.
They didn’t need to.
Wriothesley handed him his coffee first, smiling.
Neuvillette accepted it without looking. But his fingers brushed the Duke’s knuckles. On purpose.
Wriothesley said nothing.
But the smile lingered.
And somewhere, deep within Neuvillette’s chest, the sea began to rise.
---
The days that followed passed not with thunder or fanfare, but in moments quiet enough to miss if you weren’t looking. A book passed between hands. A brief touch in the hallway. The way Neuvillette lingered too long near the stove while Wriothesley cooked, though he never offered to help. He simply stood there, arms folded, watching the Duke taste the broth and nod to himself like he hadn’t already perfected the recipe.
Wriothesley would glance over his shoulder. “What?”
Neuvillette would blink. “Nothing.”
A pause.
Then Wriothesley would grin—boyish, wolfish, utterly ruined—and turn back to his pot. And Neuvillette would smile. Barely. Softly. Like the tide pulling back after a storm.
They had not kissed again.
Not because they didn’t want to.
But because something about that night had burned so brightly, so tenderly, that they both feared touching it too soon would make it vanish. Like steam off hot tea, like a dream before dawn. And neither of them was ready to lose it.
So they let it breathe.
And breathing, it grew.
---
Neuvillette was changing.
Not dramatically. But perceptibly.
The people of Fontaine noticed. At first, it unsettled them. The Chief Justice, who once seemed carved of marble and prophecy, was smiling now. Sometimes. Subtle things. The way he tilted his head to listen instead of passing judgment with just a glance. The way he no longer hovered on the edges of human rituals but sat among them, silent but present. The way his gaze no longer looked through people but at them.
The melusines were the first to catch on.
"You're softer," Sigewinne had said one morning, tilting her head while inspecting Neuvillette's expression like a puzzle she almost understood. "Not weaker. Just… softer."
Neuvillette hadn’t known what to say. So he had simply nodded, and let the thought hang in the air like starlight.
He still visited the Fortress often.
And never out of obligation.
Sometimes, he didn’t even bother with excuses. No fabricated inspections. No pretended inquiries. Just him, walking down the corridor, his steps slower now, his expression less rigid. Wriothesley always seemed to know when he was coming. Always looked up from his desk just as the Iudex arrived at the threshold, as if he had been waiting—not with expectation, but with welcome.
It was, Neuvillette realized, the first time in his long life that he’d truly been wanted without being needed.
And that scared him.
---
It happened on a rainy evening—how cliché, Neuvillette thought—but still, somehow, right.
He stood at the wide window of Wriothesley’s quarters, watching the storm churn against the sea. Far above them, Fontaine blinked with dim lights and distant bells. But down here, it was all shadows and salt and the low hum of something ancient and unspoken. He pressed a hand to the glass. The condensation kissed his skin.
Behind him, Wriothesley was quiet.
Then:
“You’ve been somewhere else all night.”
Neuvillette turned, slowly.
“I have not,” he said. “I’ve been here.”
Wriothesley rose from the sofa. His shirt hung loose around his collarbones, sleeves rolled, eyes half-lidded with something unreadable.
“Your body’s been here. Not sure about the rest of you.”
Neuvillette didn’t answer.
Wriothesley stepped closer.
“You’re not sure if you can stay, are you?” he asked, voice low. Not bitter. Not even sad. Just… honest.
And that honesty cracked something wide open.
Neuvillette’s breath caught. “No,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
A pause. Then, softer: “Not because I do not want to.”
Wriothesley looked at him for a long moment. “Then what’s holding you back?”
Neuvillette didn’t know how to answer. How to say that for centuries, he had belonged only to duty. That every act of affection felt like a betrayal of something greater. That his heart had never been his own to give.
But Wriothesley waited.
So he tried.
“I am afraid,” Neuvillette admitted, voice barely audible over the rain. “Afraid that if I allow myself this… if I step fully into it… I will never return.”
Wriothesley took another step. They were close now. Inches. Heartbeats.
“Then don’t return,” he whispered. “Stay.”
Neuvillette’s eyes fluttered shut.
And then Wriothesley kissed him.
Not like the first time. Not gentle, not trembling. This was a kiss with teeth. With breath. With the ache of a man who had waited long enough. His hands found Neuvillette’s hips, then his waist, then up—up—to cradle his jaw like something sacred.
Neuvillette didn’t flinch.
He opened to it.
Melted into it.
He gasped into Wriothesley’s mouth when their teeth clashed. Let him in. Let him devour. Kissed back with the passion of every storm he’d ever quelled. He wrapped his arms around the Duke’s shoulders, let himself be held, touched, wanted.
It was overwhelming.
It was perfect.
They stumbled backward, lips never parting, until Neuvillette’s back hit the wall. Wriothesley pressed in, the lines of their bodies finally fitting like they were carved for this. Mouths moved. Hands roamed. Neuvillette moaned when Wriothesley kissed the hinge of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the dip of his collarbone.
He was burning.
And for the first time in his life—he welcomed the fire.
“Tell me to stop,” Wriothesley murmured against his neck. “And I will.”
Neuvillette opened his eyes. They were glowing faintly now—lust and lightning. But there was no hesitation.
“Do not stop.”
So he didn’t.
They moved to the bed with reverence, but also desperation. Clothes were shed. Not quickly. Not like a fire. Like unwrapping a gift too long untouched. Like revering each scar, each piece of skin, each flaw that was suddenly not flaw at all but evidence. Evidence of survival. Of existence. Of being.
Wriothesley touched him like he knew he might never get another chance. And Neuvillette let him. Let himself be worshipped. Let himself want. Let himself feel.
Bodies tangled. Gasps swallowed. Names murmured like liturgy. And when Neuvillette came—shuddering, writhing, clutching the sheets like he might drown—he cried out not just from pleasure but from release. From the breaking of a dam too long held.
And Wriothesley followed after, with a groan like prayer.
---
Later, in the dark, Neuvillette lay curled against him.
Their legs tangled. The air thick with salt and sweat and something far more tender.
Wriothesley traced lazy circles over Neuvillette’s spine. “You’re quiet again.”
“I’m not,” Neuvillette murmured.
“No?” Wriothesley teased. “Then what are you thinking?”
Neuvillette lifted his head. His silver hair spilled across the pillow. His eyes met Wriothesley’s—soft, open, human.
“I am thinking,” he said, “that if I am to drown… let it be here.”
Wriothesley kissed his forehead.
And the sea, for once, was still.