Chapter Text
“You. You son of a bitch.”
Neuvillette has only just registered the words when a man shoves through a small crowd and grabs him roughly by the arm. The man’s grip is surprisingly strong for a human male, his arm bulging with muscle. Even through the heavy layers of his stole, his coat, his shirt, Neuvillette thinks he might bruise.
The man pulls back his fist.
This, Neuvillette thinks almost idly, is why he only rarely visits the Fortress of Meropide. To the convicts and exiles, he is an irritant better forgotten, and he does not blame them for that attitude. Especially now. With the Oratrice gone, he is the sole cause for their sentences. Their ire is not misplaced, even if it is, perhaps, not entirely deserved.
And so if he must interact with Duke Wriothesley, he calls the other man to him. For precisely this reason.
“Forgive me,” Neuvillette says, watching the man’s face instead of his fist, “but I am late for a meeting with His Grace.” He is not late, but the convict doesn’t need to know that. “Would you kindly release me?”
The man laughs and propels his fist forward.
Neuvillette shifts his weight, preparing to twist out of the way of the punch, but he need not worry.
A gloved hand intercepts the convict’s fist, catching it well away from Neuvillette’s face.
Duke Wriothesley stands there, wearing a pleasant expression, as if holding off this man’s assault is no great trouble for him. Perhaps it is not. He is quite strong for a human man. “Now, now,” the duke says, “that’s no way to treat one of my guests.”
The man snarls, jerking away from the duke—and, to Neuvillette’s surprise, hauls off to drive a punch at the duke’s face.
This one, too, the duke catches almost casually, knocking the man’s fist aside with a studied disregard.
Something catches in Neuvillette’s chest. Not a breath, no; his breathing remains even and steady. It is a sensation, a strange and foreign feeling, something that scrapes through him with a curious exhilaration and anticipation. He needs no protecting, certainly not after Focalors sacrificed her throne for the restoration of his power, and yet the duke defends him.
“You sure you want to pick this fight with me, Donatien?” the duke asks, still so nonchalant. He shoves against the convict’s hands—against Donatien’s hands, pushing him back.
“That fucking thing—”
“That man is the Chief Justice of Fontaine,” the duke says, giving Neuvillette a brief glance as though asking for permission.
Neuvillette cants his head ever so slightly to one side before giving an imperceptible nod. Of course he can easily defend himself, but this is… appreciated. Especially in front of the gathering crowd. How strange it is to be protected for a change.
How… comforting.
“And he deserves your respect.”
The convict hisses, pressing into the duke’s space, but the duke remains coolly indifferent to the threat. “He fucking took me away from my kids. He—”
“Wasn’t the one who smuggled sinthe,” the duke replies calmly.
Donatien jerks a finger at Neuvillette. “I deserve a chance to defend myself.”
“Was that not the purpose of your trial?” Neuvillette inquires.
The man makes an inhuman sound and hurls himself at Neuvillette.
Once more, the duke interposes himself between Donatien and Neuvillette, shoving the convict back hard. “And that’s enough of that,” the duke snaps. “But I’ll be nice. You’ve got two options, Donatien: you meet me in the ring, win, and we all forget this happened, or you’re working double shifts and restricted to the dormitories and the production area for the next two weeks.”
“That’s not a choice at all.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Neuvillette inhales deeply, his eyes drifting down the duke’s back. His shoulders slope easily; there’s no tension in them. This situation hasn’t upset the duke in the least. How utterly…
Interesting, Neuvillette decides after a moment. This is merely interesting. He has so few occasions to see Duke Wriothesley in his natural environment that of course he would find it interesting.
Donatien looks over the duke’s shoulder at Neuvillette, and Neuvillette meets his gaze, expression perhaps a touch too bored. The convict glares. Swings his gaze back to the duke. “Fine. You. Me. The ring.” He sneers. “When?”
The duke spreads his arms. “Why not now? Get this all taken care of before dinner.” He nods toward the entrance to the Pankration Ring.
“To the ring,” Donatien says, pulling away. He strides with purpose, heading directly toward the ring. As he goes, several men peel away from the gathered crowd, joining him, slapping him on the back. Their laughter rises briefly until the sudden upswell of conversation all around Neuvillette consumes it.
The duke turns to Neuvillette, a pinched expression on his face. “I suppose I owe you two apologies,” he says.
Neuvillette lifts his brows. “Two? I cannot imagine you needing to apologize for any one thing, Your Grace.”
Chuckling, the duke holds up a finger. “First, for someone here assaulting you like that. It shouldn’t have happened. You should be able to visit the Fortress without someone putting their hands on you.”
Yes, he should, but Neuvillette doesn’t mind. He shakes his head. “It is no concern. The people here are understandably less than fond of me.”
“Not an excuse.”
That catches Neuvillette by surprise.
“No one gets handsy with anyone else here.” The duke grins. “Except me, when I have to.”
“Hence the fight,” Neuvillette says.
“Hence the fight,” the duke agrees. “The second apology—”
“Which is equally unwarranted, I am sure,” Neuvillette murmurs, settling his hands on his cane as he eases into a more comfortable stance.
“Hah, not quite. I’m sure you could’ve handled yourself. I apologize for intervening.”
Neuvillette studies the duke for a long moment, barely paying attention to the crowd that moves away from them and toward the Pankration Ring.
Of all the possible things Neuvillette could have imagined Duke Wriothesley apologizing for, this didn’t make the list. But he is strangely gratified—because he could have taken care of himself quite handily. Was prepared to take care of himself.
And yet the duke stepped in, offering him a defense that while not strictly needed was… welcome.
It is hardly unpalatable that someone might care enough to defend him. To the contrary, it is quite welcome. Though he is more than capable of protecting himself, to have someone else who might care enough—not, he is quick to remind himself, that the duke cares in anything more than a professional matter—is a refreshing change.
Furina never would have defended him. Clorinde likely believes him above needing any kind of assistance. And who does that leave? The Traveler? Lumine is reliable only insofar as one can help her in her search for her brother. She would not defend him.
But Duke Wriothesley did.
That same strange feeling swells within him, a spreading warmth. Idly, Neuvillette lifts one hand to his chest, brushing his fingers over his sternum through his waistcoat.
“Are you well, Monsieur?” the duke asks.
Neuvillette startles, dropping his hand to his cane once more. He inclines his head ever so slightly. “I am. And now I must beg your forgiveness for implying I was not.”
“That’s unnecessary, Monsieur,” the duke says.
A small smile tugs at the corners of Neuvillette’s lips. “As unnecessary as your own apologies, then,” he says, enjoying the way the duke looks askance. “Truly, Your Grace. You owe me no apologies. This is your domain, and you must intervene in any altercation as you see fit.”
The duke looks surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting an incisive review of his actions. “I… Thank you?”
“You are the ultimate power in the Fortress,” Neuvillette continues. “It is important that you be thus respected.”
Is it his imagination or does the duke flush ever so slightly? He certainly ducks his head and looks away, as he so often does when Neuvillette gives him any kind of praise. Ah, but he must not be accustomed to such compliments. Neuvillette understands. Leading Fontaine has always been thankless, but in the past, Furina would beg for his presence, for his intercessions. Now he is… alone.
Shaking himself, Neuvillette nods toward the thinning crowd, seeking to use them as a distraction. “Should we not join them?”
The duke turns back to him, rubbing the side of his neck with a faint grimace. “You sure you want to see this?” he asks. Then, catching himself, adds, “Not that you’re not—” He breaks off, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily.
Neuvillette favors him with a quiet huff. “I am not so fragile that I cannot watch a fight,” he says mildly.
“Fuck me,” the duke mutters, so quietly that Neuvillette thinks he may have imagined the words. But, no, the duke’s lips move, if barely. Louder, he says, “I should just issue a blanket apology for everything that comes out of my mouth today, it seems.”
“No such apology is needed, Your Grace.” Especially because Neuvillette doesn’t mind. Certainly, he is capable, but having someone express concern for him is—
Again, that warm feeling spreads through him, accompanied by a strange fluttering in his belly. A strange desire to press closer to the duke swells within him, a need to bend his nose to the duke’s throat and inhale.
Neuvillette’s fingers curl tighter around his cane. He is still, yes, but he holds himself with a sudden tension.
He knows little of what it means to be a dragon; he has spent his entire life among the people of Fontaine, once oceanids and now truly humans. Everything he does know about dragons, he has uncovered himself through trial and error and the occasional bit of obscure research. But this, at least, he recognizes.
Mating instincts.
By protecting him, the duke is behaving like a dragon seeking a mate, and that has triggered Neuvillette’s own instincts to judge the duke’s adequacy.
Madness.
Neuvillette stomps ruthlessly on those instincts, pressing them deep as he has done so many times before. Oh, not these instincts particularly, but others. He is accustomed to denying himself. Must deny himself, a dragon among humans, with precious few knowing the truth of his existence. He cannot reveal it now.
His chest pangs with loneliness, but he reminds himself he is with the duke now. He is not lonely. He is surrounded by people. One cannot be lonely in a crowd, even if it is thinning.
Once more he inclines his head toward the entrance to the Pankration Ring. “Let us go,” Neuvillette says, “and see the end of this.”
“I’m happy to see you to my office if you’d rather not,” the duke says, taking a step forward.
Neuvillette follows, allowing the duke to take the lead. “I believe it will be interesting to watch you engage in combat, Your Grace.”
“You know you can call me Wriothesley. Especially when we’re—” The duke gestures vaguely. “More or less alone.”
This isn’t the first time the duke has made such a statement. He is a casual creature, one who understands the rules that govern polite society without particularly caring for them. Neuvillette has always disregarded the invitation to be more casual as a means by which to protect himself and his secrets, but now…
He is so very lonely.
“I will endeavor to do so.” Neuvillette pauses. “Wriothesley.”
There is a subtle shifting in Wriothesley’s scent, all bergamot and metal and leather. Neuvillette cannot place the change, cannot pinpoint the exact meaning, and so he puts it from his mind as he trails after Wriothesley.
“I suppose it is only fair, then, if you also address me as Neuvillette.”
Wriothesley’s eyes widen infinitesimally. Then he laughs, the sound low and smoky and coiling in Neuvillette’s belly with another foreign warmth. No, not entirely foreign, but occurring so rarely as to be utterly alien. “I’m honored.” His laugh turns into a broad smile, one that pulls at the scar beneath his eye. “I’ll have to put on a good show for my new friend the Chief Justice Neuvillette.”
Friends. Is that what they are?
Their relationship is a personal one, deeper than mere coworkers, yes, but Neuvillette has never had much in the way of friendships. He considers his relationship with the Traveler, wondering if that counts as a friendship. It is, he thinks, the closest benchmark he has. But the Traveler knows his secrets. If the knowledge of secrets is the measure of a relationship, than he and Wriothesley are not friends.
And yet he doesn’t want to gainsay the duke.
“If only I had known the exchange of names would a friendship make,” Neuvillette says instead. “Perhaps I would have volunteered such a thing myself.”
Wriothesley glances at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Glad we can be friends as well as business associates.” There are layers of meaning in those words, meaning that Neuvillette cannot parse.
Though the exiles of Meropide have accumulated around the lift that descends to the Pankration Ring, they pull back to allow Wriothesley and Neuvillette to ride together.
“Does this happen often?” Neuvillette inquires as the lift lowers.
“Hm? What?” Wriothesley sets his hands on his hips, tipping his head back to regard the lift’s ceiling.
Neuvillette gestures broadly with one hand. “Fights against irate convicts.”
“Ah.” Wriothesley gives a small shrug. “I wouldn’t say it happens often, but it’s not unheard of. Sometimes, people hear how I became administrator, and they think they can make the same leap.”
Neuvillette snorts quietly.
A grin pulls across Wriothesley’s lips. “Yeah, exactly that. Every so often, I have to put someone on their back in the ring. Helps keep things functioning smoothly.”
“Might makes right?” Neuvillette volunteers.
“Something like that.”
That, too, tickles those ancient instincts that roil inside him. It is not the tyranny of rule that intrigues Neuvillette, no, but rather the strength of conviction, of body, of will that Wriothesley must have to maintain control of the Fortress of Meropide. No lesser man could manage such a thing.
And no lesser man would defend Neuvillette as Wriothesley has.
Again, Neuvillette inhales deeply. Again, he breathes in Wriothesley’s scent. It fills his lungs, warms him through, and he fights the urge to lean close to the duke and indulge in that scent directly from the source.
How irritating these instincts are. How strange it is to feel them after—centuries. It has been centuries since they last roused within him.
The lift comes to a stop and Wriothesley gestures Neuvillette forward. “There are box seats away from the general population,” he says. “And while I don’t want to insult your abilities for a third time, I would strongly recommend you sit there.”
“I will bow to your greater knowledge,” Neuvillette replies, inclining his head. He gains the stairs to the box seats, removing himself from the general population of the Fortress, keenly aware that as many eyes are on him as rest on Wriothesley.
He wonders what they make of him, of his presence. This is the first time in Wriothesley’s brief tenure as administrator that Neuvillette has bothered with a fight in the Pankration Ring. He doesn’t consider himself above such things, but they have never been relevant to him. How Wriothesley manages the tempers of his convicts is none of Neuvillette’s concern, provided they are not being abused.
Settling in a hard seat, he curves his hands over the handle of his cane and watches.
The convicts file in, filling in the seats around the ring, and as they do, Wriothesley shrugs out of his jacket. He folds it over a bench near the side of the ring, everything about him loose and unconcerned. Opposite him, Donatien stands surrounded by his group of friends. They clasp his shoulders and speak directly into his ear. Their eyes cut toward Wriothesley as he pulls his tie lose and sets it aside.
More heat coils in Neuvillette’s belly, sweet and smoldering, an entirely unfamiliar sensation. But not an unpleasant one.
Swallowing, Neuvillette sweeps his gaze over the crowd, a little surprised to see coupons exchanging hands throughout. There is organized gambling at the foot of the ring, but even in the stands, the people of Meropide make their casual bets. How bizarre it is, he thinks, to watch them put money on Wriothesley’s body, as though buying pieces of his defeat or victory, as though buying pieces of his flesh. It makes Neuvillette uneasy, and he wishes they wouldn’t. But if Wriothesley isn’t putting a stop to the gambling, it must surely serve a purpose.
There is little the duke does without purpose.
Wriothesley strips off his waistcoat, his shirt, revealing a heavily scarred and well-muscled chest. The muscles in his back flex as he folds his shirt, bunching and loosening, the sight… Neuvillette swallows, tearing his eyes from Wriothesley’s body in an attempt to measure Donatien, but his gaze drifts back to Wriothesley anyway.
There is something magnetic about the duke, about the way his muscles flex and release, about how he moves with power and purpose. He is utterly controlled, while Donatien paces and moves in fits and bursts, prowling his circle of friends. Wriothesley takes his time with his clothes and then in the assessment of the bindings on his hands.
Neuvillette wonders what he sees. Wonders how Wriothesley’s mind turns over the situation. Were this him, he would not have engaged with Donatien at all, but his calculus is far different than Wriothesley’s. Revealing his strength is a danger. Wriothesley needs to leverage his strength, to display it, to remind the convicts and exiles of his power.
And what power he has. The strength in Wriothesley’s body is so different from Neuvillette’s own. Wriothesley is a wall of muscle, powerfully built compared to Neuvillette’s lithe strength. That he uses that strength to protect Neuvillette is—
Neuvillette swallows, fingers tightening around his cane.
Absurd. He is being absurd. And yet he cannot stomp out the desire to touch, to run his fingertips along the contours of Wriothesley’s body. What would he feel like? How warm, how firm, how—
Closing his eyes, Neuvillette takes in a long, slow breath.
A dragon would display himself as Wriothesley does to entice a mate, yes, but Wriothesley is not a dragon and has no idea that Neuvillette is.
Dredging deep for the remains of his somewhat tattered self-control, Neuvillette takes a calming breath—and somehow inhales even more of Wriothesley’s scent.
Absurd. He is being absurd. There is no way he can scent Wriothesley from this distance no matter how sensitive his nose may be.
Neuvillette opens his eyes to see Wriothesley and Donatien climbing into the ring together. A heavily muscled man stands between them at the center of the ring, beckoning them forward. His voice carries as he calls out the rules of the match, which Neuvillette doesn’t understand, and encourages sportsmanlike conduct between the two combatants, which Neuvillette doubts will be present at least from Donatien’s end.
Indeed, when the man tells them to have a clean fight and shake, Donatien turns away from Wriothesley.
Wriothesley merely shrugs, and the audience roars with laughter and cheers. Clearly, Wriothesley is the favorite. But there are those who cry out for Donatien, too, either rooting for an underdog or favoring a man who challenges the representation of authority. Or maybe they merely call for blood, excited by the violence promised to them.
Neuvillette’s lips press into a thin line.
He is no stranger to violence, but turning blood into sport sits poorly with him.
The referee calls a start to the match, and Neuvillette finds himself tense as he sits on the very edge of his seat. He is not concerned that Wriothesley will lose; Wriothesley would not make this play if he did not have every expectation of victory. And yet Neuvillette remains nervous.
Both men raise their hands, defending their faces as they begin to circle each other, and Neuvillette finds his breathing heavier, accelerated. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, eclipsing the roar of the crowd as Donatien ventures a probing strike against Wriothesley.
Wriothesley bats it aside and retaliates with a swift, darting punch of his own.
There is an incredible beauty in the ripple of muscle in Wriothesley’s back as he moves, utterly efficient. A clear gulf of skill exists between him and Donatien. As Donatien strikes back, his blow swings wide, opening him up for a counterstrike that Wriothesley takes, driving his fist deep into the other man’s solar plexus.
Neuvillette’s breath catches. He expects Wriothesley to end the match there, but he doesn’t. He pulls back, waiting for Donatien to recover—and Neuvillette realizes why a moment later. A flash of teeth from Donatien, a vicious sneer, and then he rushes forward. Wriothesley is goading him, and the tactic works. Donatien takes wild, aggressive swings, pushing Wriothesley across the ring.
A tension fills Neuvillette.
And he jerks back when Donatien feints with one strike only to drive his fist into the side of Wriothesley’s face.
With a quiet snarl, he begins to rise, only to catch himself. There is no reality in which his intervention is warranted. This is not the Opera Epiclese. He has no jurisdiction here, no right to step in and—and what? Protect the man who seeks to protect him? Undercut Wriothesley’s authority in front of a solid portion of Meropide’s population? Instinct demands he act, but he is not so base to be driven by mere instinct.
Forcing himself back into his chair, he glances toward the crowd. None of them seem to have noticed his reaction. Their attention is fixed squarely on the fight.
Wriothesley recovers from the blow to his face, wiping his split lip on the back of his hand. Blood immediately pools in the cut, dripping slowly down his lip, his chin, and Neuvillette cannot stop the quiet growl that rumbles through his chest.
The sound catches him by surprise, and that surprise cuts the rumbling growl off.
Wriothesley is not his mate. Wriothesley is not even a dragon. Neuvillette is—His behavior is utterly inappropriate.
Is he truly so lonely?
But there is Wriothesley in the Pankration Ring, battling as much for the respect of his people as for Neuvillette’s honor. Precisely as a dragon would.
The two men circle each other. Blood drips from Wriothesley’s wound. Donatien’s expression is twisted with smug satisfaction, but Wriothesley remains neutral. Focused.
Donatien launches forward, delivering another barrage of blows. Neuvillette knows nothing about boxing and cannot tell how well Wriothesley weathers the brutal assault, but he doesn’t go down. Doesn’t even flinch. He twists out of the way of a particularly vicious kick. For all his bulk, he is fleetfooted and nimble, readily dodging Donatien’s increasingly unhinged assault. It is the lack of a response, Neuvillette thinks, that has begun to frustrate Donatien, who calls out taunts between his blows.
“Can’t do anything but defend, can you?” Donatien demands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Too cowardly to attack? Where’s the Duke’s bite, huh?”
None of it seems to land. Wriothesley is patient—and that patience intrigues Neuvillette. Humans lash out. They are impulsive. But Wriothesley is not. He bides his time, and Neuvillette watches him with increasing anticipation.
And when he finally strikes, he is incomparable. He cuts beneath Donatien’s guard and pummels him with a series of furious blows that knock the other man back.
Warmth spreads through Neuvillette, a lingering heat that smolders low in his belly. His lips part.
Decades. It has been decades since he felt any burning of desire. But as he gazes down on Wriothesley, nimble and deadly in his violent elegance, he cannot help but want.
Wriothesley’s foot connects with Donatien’s head, knocking him off balance, and Neuvillette aches. He slaps aside Donatien’s guard and slams his fist into the side of the man’s head, and Neuvillette smothers a soft groan.
Donatien collapses to the ground.
Wriothesley skips back a few steps—and lowers his guard. He is so confident, so sure of himself, and Neuvillette wonders if he would bring that same confidence to the bedroom. If he would act with the same, measured intensity, efficient in his economy of action. If he—
No.
He is not so lonely that he should lust after a colleague.
The referee, crouched beside Donatien, counts to ten. Donatien does not rise.
A loud cry goes up from the crowd, and Wriothesley lifts a hand, waving to the onlookers. But his head turns ever so slightly and his eyes lift to Neuvillette’s.
Neuvillette’s breath catches.
As Wriothesley towels off his sweat, Neuvillette descends from the box seats. He measures his advance against the people who approach Wriothesley to offer hearty congratulations, giving them plenty of time to lavish their duke with the accolades he deserves. And this gives Neuvillette more time to compose himself. Time that he needs.
Measuring his breath against the beating of his heart, he waits for the crowds to fall away from Wriothesley, half his attention on the ring where Sigewinne tends to Donatien. The man is surely concussed, but Neuvillette can’t bring himself to feel badly about it.
Imagine having to face the repercussions of one’s actions. What a shame for him.
As Neuvillette draws closer, Wriothesley shakes off his admirers. A smile stretches across his face, opening his split lip. Fresh blood pools there as he cuts through the crowd.
“And that’s that,” Wriothesley declares.
“An admirable showing,” Neuvillette replies. “Has Sigewinne tended to your lip?” He knows she has not.
Wriothesley waves him off. “It’s nothing.” He turns, reaching for his shirt, and shrugs into it. The muscles of his chest bunch and release, and Neuvillette fights to keep his gaze above Wriothesley’s throat.
It is a much harder task than it should be.
“Considering that you’re still bleeding, I wouldn’t call that nothing,” Neuvillette says.
Wriothesley laughs. “I’ve taken worse hits.” His fingers do up the buttons quickly, leaving the top several undone, as always.
Neuvillette’s fingers itch to reach out and finish buttoning up Wriothesley’s shirt. To make him more presentable of course. Not because he wants Wriothesley’s scent on his gloves. Not because he wants an excuse to be closer.
He is not as strong as he would like to be, and he sets aside his cane and reaches for Wriothesley’s waistcoat. “Allow me,” he says, holding the waistcoat up.
Wriothesley slides into it without hesitation, and Neuvillette inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of sweat and violence. Good. On Wriothesley, the scent is unexpectedly good.
Settling the waistcoat in place, Neuvillette steps back. It takes all his willpower not to run his hands down the fabric and smooth it over Wriothesley’s back.
“Thanks. I probably should shower before putting all this back on, but we’ve still got a meeting.”
The image of Wriothesley standing beneath a spray of warm water fills Neuvillette’s mind immediately. Droplets sluice down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. They gather in rivulets to drip over his abdomen and—
Neuvillette clears his throat. “If you would like to shower, I am quite happy to wait in your office.” Where he will most assuredly not continue imagining Wriothesley wet and naked as steam billows around—
He cannot pinch the bridge of his nose, but he is sorely tempted.
“If it doesn’t bother you, I’ll manage,” Wriothesley says, grabbing his tie and slinging it around his neck.
The idea of having to sit in Wriothesley’s office surrounded by his sweat bothers Neuvillette quite a bit. But since he has no interest in explaining himself—and since he’s feeling masochistic—he inclines his head. “It does not. Come, let us put this unpleasantness behind us. We have much to discuss.”
“Unpleasantness? That’s one way to describe it.” Wriothesley beckons for Neuvillette to follow him as he grabs his jacket and strides toward the lift.
Once more, the convicts and exiles part like water before Wriothesley—perhaps even quicker this time, as though catalyzed by the reminder of Wriothesley’s power.
“You’re alright, yeah?” Wriothesley asks as they step into the lift, alone for the moment.
Neuvillette nods. “Of course.” He hesitates before continuing, “While I was never in any danger, I appreciate your concern. Dealing with Monsieur Donatien myself would have been undesirable.”
“Well, hopefully that’ll be the last time someone here puts a hand on you.”
It will not be, but it might be for Wriothesley’s tenure, and for that, Neuvillette is grateful. “Let us hope.”
They exit the lift and walk in silence to Wriothesley’s office. The convicts give them a wide berth, but they are not shy in watching Wriothesley and Neuvillette pass. Whispers follow, too, muffled behind raised hands. Neuvillette’s keen ears pick up the murmured observations; they are nothing to worry about, mere commentary on Wriothesley’s fight and prowess. Good. Meropide’s occupants should understand and respect Wriothesley’s power.
Neuvillette shakes himself once, subtly, as Wriothesley opens the door to his office tower. “After you.”
The first floor of Wriothesley’s office is spartan and bare, likely deliberately so. Wriothesley treats the entrance to his office like an afterthought—and presumably, everyone else who enters does, too. No one would ever think that one of Fontaine’s most dangerous secrets was stored beneath the Fortress of Meropide.
Now, of course, the Primordial Sea is no threat.
There is a profound comfort in that truth, in the knowledge that none of the people of Fontaine risk dissolution.
Neuvillette gains the stairs to Wriothesley’s office proper, drifting across the open space toward the couch and table set to one side. A tea service is already on the table, waiting for them. The water in the pot has certainly gone cold. Neuvillette reaches for it.
“If you’re about to reheat the water, please. Don’t.”
He stills, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t?”
“There’s tea in there already. Reheating it—” Wriothesley snorts as he approaches, so close that Neuvillette feels the heat of his body through even the weight of his clothing. “You wouldn’t melt snow to drink, would you?”
“No,” Neuvillette replies immediately, nauseated by the thought.
“So, we don’t reheat the teapot.” Blood drips over his lip, a thin trail of it.
Straightening, abandoning the teapot, Neuvillette rounds on Wriothesley. “You are still bleeding.”
“Hm?” Wriothesley touches his fingers to his lips. Brings them away, bloody and red. “Huh. I’ll—”
Neuvillette cannot help himself. His fingers catch on Wriothesley’s wrist, drawing that bloody hand away from his lip. Need churns in his gut. “Allow me. You took that hit on my behalf, after all.” Like a dragon would do to impress a mate. “The least I can do is—help.”
“Oh?” Neuvillette is sure the breathlessness in Wriothesley’s voice is a product of his imagination.
“Oh,” Neuvillette says. Releasing Wriothesley’s wrist, he brings his gloved fingers to the man’s lip, conjuring Hydro at his fingertips.
Wriothesley hisses.
“It is only water.” But Neuvillette lifts his fingers away. He does not want to cause more harm.
“Still stings.”
“It should not. Be still, Wriothesley.”
With the admonition, Wriothesley obeys.
They are, Neuvillette thinks, far too close. A mere breath of space separates their bodies, and Neuvillette leans his face closer to examine the split in Wriothesley’s lip.
How easy it would be to kiss the duke. How easy it would be to press his mouth against the corner of Wriothesley’s, to tell him his behaviors were noticed, are accepted, are—
No.
Wriothesley is no dragon, and Neuvillette is not slave to the instincts that churn in his gut.
Gently, he sets his fingers against Wriothesley’s cheek. His pinky finger presses against the curve of Wriothesley’s jaw. And his thumb pulls over the split in Wriothesley’s lip, slow and even, a barely there caress.
Not a caress, he reminds himself. This is perfunctory. A healing. Nothing more than that.
And yet he cannot help but wonder what Wriothesley might do if Neuvillette did eliminate the last of the distance between them. Cannot help but wonder if Wriothesley would turn into a kiss. If Wriothesley would draw him into his arms, embrace him, cradle him close, and—and what? Treat him as a dragon would?
Absurd. He is being absurd.
Hydro drips from his thumb as he focuses on his task. He is not adept at healing, but even he can manage a split lip. With Hydro, he repairs broken blood vessels and split flesh, knitting Wriothesley’s skin back together with a careful application of his power.
He brushes his thumb against Wriothesley’s lip again, trying not to think about how soft Wriothesley’s skin is. Trying not to feel the warm rush of Wriothesley’s breath against his thumb.
The wound is mostly healed. A few more days, and it will be fine.
“Try not to smile too much,” Neuvillette says, dropping his hand and stepping back. “You are repaired, but the skin will be fragile for a day or two.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Wriothesley says, watching him.
The air tastes electric, filling Neuvillette’s mouth like ozone and his nose like petrichor. And beneath the scent of fresh rain is another, spicier one. Leather and bergamot and something more.
Neuvillette is tempted, so tempted, to close the distance between them once more, to slide his hand into Wriothesley’s hair and urge their mouths together. To find out if Wriothesley tastes the way he smells. He suspects he would be welcome.
But that is a line he will not cross.
He turns to the teapot. “If we cannot use this teapot, shall I replace the water within?” Hydro coalesces in the air above his palm.
When Wriothesley doesn’t immediately reply, Neuvillette glances back at him.
Consternation twists Wriothesley’s face.
“Ah. A no, then,” Neuvillette says.
“I’ll—get us a fresh pot,” Wriothesley says. “Make yourself at home.”
Wriothesley hurries down the office stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. His lip still tingles where Neuvillette touched it, and when he runs his tongue over the unbroken skin, he swears he can taste the remains of Neuvillette’s Hydro.
Clutching the teapot in one hand, he strides toward the kitchenette on the first floor of his office, reeling.
Healing. That was a healing. That wasn’t—
Wriothesley swallows and rakes his hand through his hair.
That wasn’t flirting. Couldn’t have been flirting. He’s known Neuvillette for years now. Has made his subtle invitations. Neuvillette never once picked up on them—or he has and he’s chosen to ignore them. Wriothesley has told himself that’s for the best. Whatever Neuvillette is, he’s ancient. He’s powerful. He doesn’t need someone like Wriothesley clamoring for his attention.
But today—fuck.
He pushes into the kitchenette and goes to the sink, emptying out the teapot while trying not to think about Neuvillette’s presence in his office. There’s something surreal about Neuvillette sitting up there on a couch, waiting for him. Surreal and—and strangely intimate. Sure, they’ve had a few meetings here and there, but he’s never left Neuvillette alone in his office before.
Not, he thinks, that it should matter. It’s just an office, and there’s nothing in there he wouldn’t trust Neuvillette with.
Wriothesley shakes the last of the water out of the teapot and sets it on the counter as he grabs the kettle and goes to the tiny refrigerator with its filtered water. One of the previous Administrator’s extravagances, now Wriothesley’s boon. He pours water in the kettle, doing everything in his power to put Neuvillette from his mind and utterly failing.
Today, Neuvillette watched him with what Wriothesley can only describe as ravenous interest. He felt the weight of Neuvillette’s eyes through his entire fucking fight, the gravity of Neuvillette’s regard inescapable.
People watch him for a lot of reasons. Respect. Fear. A misplaced desire to uncover his weaknesses.
But that wasn’t why Neuvillette watched him. Well. Maybe the respect. But that’s not the impression Wriothesley has.
Water spills over the top of the kettle, pouring down his wrist and onto the floor.
“Fuck.”
Jerking the kettle away from the spigot and setting it on the counter, he grabs a towel to mop up the floor.
Bad form. He can’t let his mind wander like this, not even in the privacy of his own office. If he makes it a habit, his mind will wander somewhere else, somewhere important, and that’s how a man like him ends up dead.
Throwing the wet towel into the sink, he sets the kettle on its plate. As it heats, he braces his hands against the counter and lets his head hang.
That wasn’t flirting, he tells himself again. It was just one friend helping another. It was a kindness, a healing, nothing more.
But it feels like more.
“You’re a fool,” Wriothesley mutters to himself, shoving away from the counter. He opens the cabinet containing his tea collection, rooting through the glass jars for the right flavor. Neuvillette won’t drink it, of course, so he’s not worried about finding something that will satisfy the Iudex, but something for himself. Something to calm his nerves. Something to settle him down. Chamomile? No, the honeyed cider. It’s bright and cheerful, but it’s soothing and familiar, one of his favorites.
He pulls the jar down, spooning the tea into a fresh infuser and leaving the old one in the sink with the towel.
The kettle screams its readiness, and Wriothesley slips the infuser into the empty teapot, pouring the hot water over it. He checks the clock on the wall, setting a timer in his head, and then pauses.
A meeting with Neuvillette after—
Whatever that was.
A kind gesture between friends. Between colleagues.
Nothing. It was nothing. It has to be nothing, because if it was something—
Wriothesley cuts the thought off, picking up the teapot and striding out of the kitchenette. He gains the stairs, measuring his steps so that he doesn’t appear too eager. At the top of the stairs, he finds Neuvillette seated on the couch, legs crossed, his expression pleasantly neutral.
“Tea,” Wriothesley says, gesturing to the teapot.
Fuck, but that was a stupid thing to say.
Neuvillette spares him a comment, merely inclining his head in silent agreement.
“Would you like a cup?” Wriothesley asks as he crosses the office to join Neuvillette. He already knows the answer will be no, but he offers out of longstanding tradition.
“I would not mind one,” Neuvillette says, absolutely shattering Wriothesley’s reality for the second time that day.
Wriothesley goes still, half bent over the table. He forces himself to set the teapot down, to act casually, to not betray his surprise any more than he already has. “You—Alright, then.” A small grin pulls at his face. This is just as meaningless as everything else that has passed between them. It has to be meaningless. But it still warms him.
Maybe there is some hope—
No. Absolutely not.
Reining himself in, he reaches for one of the reports on the table between them, circles around to the couch, and settles himself down at a respectable distance. “While it finishes steeping, shall we?” he asks, lifting the report.
Neuvillette shifts on the couch, uncrossing his legs. “Indeed, let us begin.”