Chapter Text
The Court of Fontaine was said to be a romantic place, the number one destination for young lovers wishing to get away. Newly weds giddily checking into their hotel rooms, young lovers holding hands as they take a path through the many public gardens enjoying the scent of roses that perfume the air. And no one could ever deny the beauty of seeing the Opera Epiclese, its golden glow casting anyone in its vicinity a romantic light. Whispers of sweet nothings passed from mouth to ear.
If you were to ask anyone who traveled to Fontaine, they would be sure to sing its praises. Citing the cute boutiques lining limestone streets, the sweet treats that are light and airy, and plenty of water features for tourists to be dazzled by.
Though to those who lived in Fontaine, it wasn’t much more than another city. Life was as mundane as it could be to the average citizen. The rich get richer, and those down on their luck still scrape the bottom of the barrels looking for scraps. Maybe those looking for a bite to eat have a glimmer of luck in the future. Fighting in a war can be quite the honor, or so Wriothesley has been told.
He whistles a song he doesn’t quite remember the words to, fiddling with an unlit cigar as he makes his way through Flueve Cendre. It was considered the poorest part of Fontaine, carefully picked like rotten cherries from any brochure that hopeful tourists would come across. It has it’s own charm to it, Wriothesley likes to think. In between the industrial smoke clinging to the older buildings and the rats scuttling from box to box looking for a place to sleep. It wasn't much at all compared to the grandeur of say the Opera Epiclese, but to those who don’t have much else it was home.
It was also the place where night life used to take form. Nowadays, with many goods being in short supply due to the rising need of supplies to keep soldiers alive to fight, the usual nightly entertainment was almost nothing more than a whisper of more prosperous times. That was, of course, only the thoughts of those who didn’t quite figure out where to look.
The Rag and Bones Pawn Shop was quite explanatory on the surface. A simple pawn shop for those in need of a little bit of extra mora to trade away valuables. It was quite profitable in hard times, not enough jobs to go around and a need for food on the table. The bell above the door rings cheerily as Wriothesley steps inside, Alvard standing at the counter with a customer. Wriothesley can’t quite see what's being discussed but he doesn’t bother with investigating. Instead he nods in acknowledgement to the man, making his way to the back of the store.
Instead of stepping through the door where an office is held, he goes through a different door right past it. One that opens up to a steep staircase downwards. He shuts the door behind him, finally settling the cigar between his teeth as he makes his way down. The staircase itself wasn’t all that noteworthy, outside of being quite cramped and suffocatingly damp at times. No, the noteworthy part is what is on the other side of the door at the bottom of the staircase.
At the other end of the staircase was what most would assume was a basement. While the blanket statement was true enough, opening the door reveals a well decorated bar. A raised stage on the opposite end of the room where live music and shows can be performed for the pleasure of the guests. The tables were already quite crowded, well dressed guests sipping an array of different drinks as they chatted. It was always busier at the end of the week, Wriothesley notes with a smugness that is quite unbecoming of him.
“I was wondering when you were gonna show up,” Clorinde greets as he steps through the door. She was leaning against the wall beside the door, one eye sliding open as she regarded him critically.
Wriothesley grins at her, “Careful there, it almost sounds like you missed me,” he teases, chuckling at the indignant scoff he receives in response. “Besides, it’s Friday.”
Clorinde hums, the tone judging as she makes her way to the bar where Wolsey is cleaning glasses with a wet rag. Totally not eavesdropping on the conversation like the insatiable gossip he is. “Ah yes, the only day you ever come down here outside of business,” she intones deadpan, settling at the bar with a raised brow in his direction.
“‘What can I say? I’m a patron of the arts,” Wriothesley says flippantly, making his way to the backstage door with a wave.
“More like a patron of an artist,” she mutters. He chooses to ignore her, giving her plausible deniability like the good friend he is.
Stepping backstage was always like stepping into a different world entirely. Musicians frantically sorting through sheet music and making last minute adjustments to their instruments. Performers and stage hands making sure costumes and props were in proper order before the final calls were made. It always gave Wriothesley a slight headache watching the chaos of it all. Too many times has he wanted to step in and make it slightly more uniform, though he knows it’s a futile effort at this point.
“Ah, Your Grace!” A giddy voice floats above the rest. Squeezing his way through the throng of workers comes Lyney, bounding up to him with a cat-like grin. “A pleasure to see you, as always!” he says “I do hope you are impressed by mine and Lynette’s performance tonight!” Wriothesley glances around trying to spot the quieter twin at the mention of her name. She isn’t immediately spotted, either helping the stage hands or hiding in one of the dressing rooms for a quick nap.
“I’m sure your show will be as enjoyable as all the others,” Wriothesley says easily. He makes his way through the backstage area. Lyney follows after him, probably having checked over his props a million and one times before Wriothesley even made it down the stairs to the bar.
The pout is audible in Lyney’s voice the next time he speaks, though it was mixed in with his usual humor and a hint of teasing. “Though I doubt it’ll be as enjoyable as one act in particular, eh?”
Wriothesley hums noncommittally, slowing down as they come by one dressing room in particular. Like many of the long term talent hired at the bar, the dressing room door was personally decorated to the talent’s taste. This door in particular was done with a pastel blue background, a couple leisurely otters painted on top. Some were holding shells and others playfully peeked from the corners and edges of the door. Though even in the low lighting of the backstage area, you could see where some of the paint has faded and chipped with age. He’s sure Sigewinne or Sedene will be quick to remedy that with the spare paint they seem to always have on hand when they get a minute. He knocks on the door politely before nudging the door open.
The dressing room itself wasn’t anything remarkable, a plush carpet over the floor and lowly lit with a couple of lamps. Sitting at the vanity was Neuvillette and Lynette. The younger of the two was getting her hair done, a bottle of hairspray rattling as Neuvillette shakes it aggressively. Huddled on one of the couches in the corner was Freminet, messing with his wind up penguin toy quietly.
Lyney gasps, pushing past Wriothesley with an exaggerated offense. “My dear sister! You didn’t tell me you were changing your hairstyle!” he says scandalized, startling the two at the vanity. Neuvillette sends the magician an unimpressed look as his sister rolls her eyes at him in the mirror. Lyney flushes under the stern look, uttering out a sheepish apology as he quiets down. Wriothesley hides his amusement behind a cough.
“I ran out of hair spray,” Lynette says with a yawn. “Madame is letting me use his until I can get more.” Lynette appraises her own hair in the mirror then, her usual hairstyle was quite simple compared to the more elaborate hairdos of some of the performers. A simple braid framing one side of her face as the rest was tightly combed back into a low ponytail. Though it seems as if Neuvillette gave the girl a new hairstyle, with two braids crowning her head and being held together in a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her usual ribbon was used to secure the bun in place. “Pretty,” she mumbles.
Lyney makes his way up behind the two, leaning back when Neuvillette practically douses the girl’s hair with hairspray. “That should do you for tonight,” he says idly, setting the hairspray bottle down on his vanity with a clack. “If you feel like you need more, feel free to come in here and touch up,” he says, shooing the girl off his vanity bench with a gentle gesture. She moves without fuss, going to settle down on the couch beside Freminet.
“Why Madame, I might have to start pestering you to do my hair!” Lyney says, hovering behind Neuvillette as he moves onto doing his own makeup.
“At that rate he'll be doing everyone's hair,” Wriothesley muses, making his way further into the room idly. Despite owning the bar and the pawn shop up top, stepping into the dressing room feels as if he were the guest in someone else’s place. Perhaps he should be more concerned with that thought than he was.
“Hm, then Sedene and Sigewinne would have to entertain themselves with your hair, Your Grace,” Neuvillette says, a smile pulling at his painted lips as he glances at Wriothesley through his mirror. A simple tease, and a familiar one at that, but it was enough to send a pleasant flutter through his stomach. The man was quite the sight, his chosen gown for the night a champagne white with pearl detailing that glittered serenely in the low lighting. Like all the dresses he has at his disposal, it hugged his figure before flaring out near the bottom of the skirt. With one final flick of his makeup pencil, Neuvillette stands up, hair tumbling down around his shoulders and down his back in gentle waves as he regards the group that has invaded his dressing room.
“On second thought,” Wriothesley says, blanching at the thought. Give those two an inch and they’ll take a mile, a well known fact by many. Chances are they would pester him until he lets them do more than just his hair.
“Perhaps you could do with a new makeover,” Neuvillette says with a wicked grin.
Beside him, Lyney lights up at the idea nodding along as if he had any chance to convince Wriothesley. “You know what they say, new year new you.”
“Considering it’s not quite the new year I think I’ll be fine,” Wriothesley says with a shake of his head.
“Time is only an illusion, Your Grace, who is to say a new year can’t start tomorrow?” Lynette asks, staring at him ominously. Before he can even think of a response to that, the crackle of the intercom interrupts them. Five minutes till the show starts is the garbled message that Wriothesley can only make out from hearing it so many times.
“You three oughta get to it then,” Wriothesley says. Watching with amusement as Lyney all but drags his sister and Freminet out of the room, waving to Neuvillette as the door clicks shut behind them. Wriothesley lets his gaze wander back to Neuvillette as the three siblings scramble to get into places. It was only then that the quiet crackling of the radio registers. Some jazz music interspersed with updates about the war. “Do you really think I need a makeover?” he asks with nothing better in mind. He draws closer to the other man, always seeming to orbit him no matter what.
Neuvillette hums, securing small pearl earrings with the help of his vanity mirror before he turns to peer up at Wriothesley. He hasn’t put his heels on yet, seeing as he’s a couple inches shorter than Wriothesley is used to him being. “I think you look perfectly fine as you are,” he assures him with a smile. Neuvillette reaches out, straightening out the imaginary wrinkles in Wriothesley’s blazer. “You do have blood on your lapel, though,” he notes with an amused snicker.
“Damn,” Wriothesley mutters looking down at the spot Neuvillette pointed out. Just like he said, a small spattering of blood was soaked into the lapel of his blazer. “I was trying to keep it clean too.”
Neuvillette hums, moving to help Wriothesley shrug off his blazer with practised movements. “You do have an extra one, yes?” he asks, perfectly filling the role of a pestering mother the younger members often joke about him being. He folds the stained blazer over his arm with a raised brow, reaching out to fiddle with Wriothesley’s tie where it was knocked askew.
Wriothesley hums, letting the thought of the blazer slip from his mind. “I’m sure I’ll find one later,” he says dismissively. Looping an arm around the other's waist with a charming grin. “Though I must say I am a little distracted at the moment.”
Neuvillette huffs unimpressed, though his lips curl up gently at the corners. “Flattery will get you most everywhere, Your Grace. Though I must inform you it won’t get you far with me,” he says it with a subtle amusement underlining his words.
“Shame then, you’re the only one I’d wish to flatter, songbird,” Wriothesley says, catching the hand Neuvillette was using to fix his tie. He presses a kiss to the back of it, enjoying the minute flush he can pick out from beneath the makeup powdered across Neuvillette’s pale skin. This close he can see the pearlescent glitter the man uses as highlighter across his cheekbones, though he notes that it was much more tamed then he would usually prefer using for a show.
Neuvillette regards him for a moment, a small private smile softening his features before he glances away with a hum. “Keep that up and some might start to get ideas.” The hand Wriothesley was holding slips from his grasp, Neuvillette turns away from him to grab his heels for the night.
There was something about low lighting that makes a person more honest. A dangerous thing in this line of work, where honesty can become a hair trigger for even the most precisely made bombs. However, looking at Neuvillette, the lamp lighting of the dressing rooms softens his features. Makes him feel less unobtainable, one step closer to tangible. And Wriothesley craves it like a man starved.
“What kind of ideas?” Wriothesley can’t help but ask. There was a faint kindling of hope in his chest, one he’s careful to keep tempered for the time being. He undoes the tie around his neck, letting it hang limply down his chest as he moves to settle on the sofa in the corner of the dressing room. It had no right to be as comfortable as it was, Wriothesley thinks as he sinks into its cushions. No wonder why anyone even a smidge close to Neuvillette sneaks in here for naps.
Neuvillette is quiet for a long moment, fiddling with the strap of his heels. Wriothesley wonders if he’s stalling. Either way, Wriothesley lets it happen, tracing over the beautifully inked tattoo that curls over the back of Neuvillette’s shoulders. Honesty isn’t the only thing that comes to the forefront in the privacy of lamplight, but hesitancy as well. A deadly poisonous bugger it was. How many shots were missed in the seconds it took for someone to pull a trigger? How many lives get snuffed out in between the dark corners due to words failing someone? How many deals fall through in the absence of ink on paper? While honesty could be the trigger it’s hesitancy that becomes the detonator.
“Well,” Neuvillette starts, picking through his words as if searching for a needle in a haystack. He doesn’t meet Wriothesley’s eyes as he continues, which is a first for them. Out of everyone, Neuvillette is one of the few who will meet his blood drunk gaze head on. “Perhaps one starts to wonder if you’d fancy something more than kisses paid for by the hour.”
The kindling sparks to a flame, suffusing through him as he blinks up at the singer. Before Wriothesley can respond, there's a frantic knock at the door. “Madame?” Sedene’s voice comes through the door, accompanying even more of her frantic knocking. And like a twig under a boot, the moment snaps in two.
Neuvillette is quick to answer the door, heels clicking against the floor as he peers down at the younger woman. “Yes? What happened?” he asks. Gone was the fallible man that stood softened by lamplight. Instead, he’s back to being the perfectly collected Madame.
“There’s a costume mishap,” Sedene says with a huff. “Imena lost her hat and no one can find it.”
“Not even Cornelia can find it?” Neuvillette asks, following Sedene out of the room. As he steps out to close the door, Neuvillette’s gaze catches on Wriothesley. There was a noticeable pause when they meet each other's gaze. His shoulders tense, there was a hesitancy with his next step as if he was wanting to say something.
“Madame?” Sedene’s voice calls with an urgent persistence out from further down the hall.
“You should go deal with that,” Wriothesley says. He smiles reassuringly at Neuvillette, “I’ll still be here.”
“Right,” Neuvillette mumbles, seemingly lost in thought for a second. Sedene calls for him again, snapping him out of his wandering thoughts. “Right, yes I’m coming,” he assures the girl. Wriothesley watches as the door shuts with a gentle click, listening as the beating of his heels wanders further down the hall.
As if he were a marionette with limbs cut from its strings, he slumps further into the sofa. Tipping his head back, Wriothesley stares up at the ceiling of the dressing room. Forgotten on the raised shelf on the vanity, the radio keeps playing its jazz music with a quiet crackle. Every couple of songs interspersed with updates on the war front. Being the only person in the room feels strangely off putting. With Neuvillette out it’s as if the room becomes little more than a husk of its occupant.
With a groan, Wriothesley pushes himself up. He loiters near the radio, listening to the idle chatter of the reporters as they talk. He doesn’t quite register what they’re saying. His focus seems to have followed after Neuvillette, chasing after his heels like a dog after its owner. He reaches out to the dial, turning it until it shuts off with a quiet click. The silence in the wake of the radio being turned off was almost jarring, making the room feel suffocating in its quiet.
He makes his way from backstage to the main room of the bar again. Where it was busy before, now it could be considered packed. Men and women alike were in varying groups, some standing at the bar and others comfortably sitting at the tables. Instrumental music was playing throughout the room, kudos of the small band the Meropide bar employed. Though one table remained empty, set in the back corner near the bar Wolsey attended with Marette. It was empty more often then it wasn’t, simply because that table was the Duke’s table. No one sits at it without an invitation and to receive one was considered a high honor. Not that it happens often, if ever.
The music quiets down as Wriothesley makes his way towards the bar. Wolsey catches his eye with a grin that knows too much for a man who hasn’t left the bar once, he moves efficiently though having a whiskey neat prepared just as Wriothesley reaches the bar.
“You seem sullen, Your Grace,” Wolsey says, a gleam in his eyes that reminds Wriothesley of a piranha finding its next meal. “Would you like to talk about it? I think it’s important to remind you that I do have a doctorate in psychology.”
Wriothesley takes a sip of his drink, eyeing Wolsey over the rim of his glass. “A doctorate that’s good for profiling targets, not bartending.”
“You’d be surprised,” Wolsey says as if he was a wise old man and not a gossip hungry bartender. “Sometimes the best advice is from a man mixing drinks. Or a woman mixing drinks,” Wolsey adds when Marette pointedly coughs.
“You should listen to him, Your Grace,” Marette says with her usual deadpan voice. She was holding a beer bottle in her hand, lipstick the same shade she was wearing pressed to the rim. “They say it’s good to get things off your chest.”
Wriothesley hums, squinting at the two in suspicion. “I think I’ll pass,” he says, deciding to take his drink and make rounds around the bar floor.
The house lights dim, letting the stage lights draw in the audience's attention. Lyney bounds out from the wings, a wide smile on his face as he practically dances onto the stage. Behind him, Lynette follows at a more sedate pace, playing up her exasperation at her brother’s antics for the audience. “Ladies and gentleman!” Lyney greets excitedly, his voice prattling on as he continues with the show. Technically, neither Lyney or Lynette were properly performing tonight. Their usual magic shows taking a backseat for the time being. Instead, they chose to fill in the role of the hosts. Rousimoff, the usual host for the show, was drafted for the war and was currently serving at the moment. Though there was little to worry about on the production side of things, as both Lyney and Lynette took to their roles as hosts like fish to water.
The show goes smoothly, the quiet clatter of drinks and whispered conversations giving way to the perfect opportunity to pick up on some rumors passing from mouth to ear. Imena found her hat, either that or she switched to a different costume entirely for her set. And despite what Lyney and Clorinde like to poke fun at him for, he does enjoy the show put on by all the performers. From small comedy skits to quick stories that are easy to follow along, to songs accompanied by the live band. Each act carefully interspersed with the twins' commentary and amusing bickering. Lyney also somehow was able to sneak a dove, which Wriothesley should've expected in hindsight. You can never deny a magician their tricks it would seem.
“Now for our last performance of the night!” Lyney starts with a genuine grin stretching across his face. Even Lynette has perked up at the mention of the next act. “I’m very pleased to introduce to the stage Meropide's most renowned talent, our dearest Madame,” Lyney introduces with a flourish.
Wriothesley leans against the bar. The man he was conversing with, a self proclaimed scientific genius from the Fontaine Research Institute who introduced himself as Eastinghouse, huffs in offense as Wriothesley focuses his attention onto the stage. From behind the curtains, Neuvillette steps out into the stage lights. Lynette offers her hand to him, leading him to center stage, quick to follow Lyney backstage after a polite bow of her head. Covering the lower half of Neuvillette’s face was a handheld fan. Small pearls embroidered the main portion of the fan, matching the dress he wore for tonight’s show.
There were a couple reasons why Neuvillette was regarded as one of Meropide’s best talents. Outside of being the performer that has worked here the longest, he was able to command people’s attention in a way Wriothesley has seen drill sergeants struggle with. While on stage or working on more delicate matters, he had a way to make you feel wine drunk with a single glance. Wriothesley can see it working on the audience now, each one lured in as if enamoured with a gem. As the first notes of the song started to play, Wriothesley couldn't help but think that Neuvillette made the stories of sirens luring sailors to their doom with little more than their enchanting voices believable to him. Wriothesley is sure that if Neuvillette was the one luring him to his doom on the open sea, he would willingly give himself over to the chilly embrace of the ocean.
Like all the performances that Wriothesley was always sure to make time to attend, it was done beautifully. He couldn’t help but wonder how much it would cost to have a recording of Neuvillette’s singing done. Wriothesley would be more than happy to pay for it he knows. The thought is set aside for another time as the song starts to come to a close. Even under bright stage lights, Neuvillette catches his gaze. A damning smile curls sinfully at his lips as he sings the last note gently, his voice lulling hum.
The audience claps, the lights turning back up from their low dim as Neuvillette bows before trading places with Lyney and Lynette. The twins make their final remarks and do some menial magic tricks. The hum of conversation picking back up as no performances are scheduled for the rest of the night. Wriothesley hums to himself as he turns back to Eastinghouse, who still stands close enough for conversation while sipping his own drink.
Wriothesley picks through the conversation they were having, tilting his head as he considers the scientist. “Last I heard arkhium was an unstable material. Unless you’ve found a way to stabilize it?” Wriothesley asks with interest. He wouldn’t claim to be a master in the subject of arkhium, however he does have what he likes to think is a comprehensive understanding of the element. Pneuma and ousia powered reactions have started to become quite common around Fontaine, while arkhium itself was still considered too volatile for general use. Where pneuma and ousia canceled each other out and were able to stabilize the other, arkhium didn’t have that at the moment. Or didn’t as far as Wriothesley was aware.
Eastinghouse smiled, his eyes squinting with it behind his glasses. “You see, Your Grace, an element is only as unstable as the hands that experiment with it. But, if you are able to find an equilibrium, it can become quite… enlightening,” Eastinghouse says it with a love drunk gaze, as if arkhium was some kind of distant lover and not an unstable element. He takes a sip of his drink, blinking out of his daze. “And, if I may be so bold, this enlightenment could possibly be enough to turn the tides of war.”
Wriothesley nods along politely. Taking another sip of his whiskey to try and buy himself some time to find a way to politely turn the mad scientist down, his plan foiled as he’s met with an empty glass. An arm hooks around his, a freshly poured tumbler of whiskey offered to him. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he’s greeted with the sight of Neuvillette hiding an incredulous look with the same fan he used on stage. Wriothesley clears his throat in an attempt not to laugh, taking the tumbler of whiskey gratefully.
“Professor,” Neuvillette greets, his expression smoothing out into a pleasant smile behind his fan as the scientist looks at him. “Apologies for eavesdropping, I’m sure you can understand that my curiosity is practically insatiable. Though it seems like congratulations are in order, it sounds to me like you’ve found your muse.”
Wriothesley wraps his arm around Neuvillette’s waist comfortably. The performer instinctively leans into him, his body a comfortable and familiar warmth along Wriothesley’s side. Wriothesly brings the tumbler of whiskey up to his lips for a sip, pausing to blink at the faint line of lip gloss lining the rim. He eyes Neuvillette with a raised brow, only now noting the other doesn’t have a drink of his own. When he takes a sip of his drink, the faint traces of lipgloss lingers on his lips. He watches as Eastinghouse puffs up like a proud bird at the mention of celebrating his accomplishments.
“Ah, you know the perfect way to celebrate?” Wriothesley interjects before the scientist could prattle on about any more of his many accomplishments. “How about any drinks you’d like? On the house of course,” Wriothesley adds with a wide smile. “Just tell Wolsey that I sent you.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Your Grace,” Eastinghouse says with a pleased smile. “I’d be more than happy to take you up on that offer.”
“Don’t mention it,” Wriothesley says, nodding to the man as he goes off to the bar for his drinks.
“Poor Sigewinne,” Neuvillette comments, closing his fan softly before letting it dangle around his wrist. “I do hope he’s at least easy to drag up the stairs.”
“Nah, Clorinde can have him,” Wriothesley dismisses it with a shrug. Wolsey seems particularly energetic to serve the scientist after a short conversation, he had a personable grin that always belies how deranged he can be. “We’ll have to keep tabs on him.”
“I’m assuming you would like to peruse his… research?” Neuvillette asks lightly, a small pause before the last word as if he wasn’t quite sure if it fit.
“That can be discussed later,” Wriothesley muses. He turns to face Neuvillette, his hand smoothing over the singer's hip as he looks at him. “You were beautiful up there, songbird.” Wriothesley has probably said it a million by this point, and each time it rings true. He isn’t exactly the type to give praise, but he finds it sits sweet on his tongue like honey, waiting for him to give it to Neuvillette.
The singer hums, a demure smile curling at his lips at the praise. Wriothesley bites back a grin as Neuvillette is quick to hide the flush behind his fan. “You know, Your Grace, the others are going to start assuming you have favorites if you keep talking like that,” he teases, peering up at Wriothesley through the lace trim.
Wriothesley considers it for a second. “There's no use trying to dissuade them if it’s true,” he grins as Neuvillette splutters, his fan snap shut as he smacks Wriothesley in the chest with it gently.
“You did that on purpose,” Neuvillette mutters. He can’t be too mad though, as he still tips his head to the side as Wriothesley ducks his head to muffle his laughter into the singer's shoulder. The fan dangles from Neuvillette’s wrist as his hand lingers on Wriothesley’s chest, trailing over the unwound tie that Wriothesley never bothered to redo. At some point in the night, the top couple buttons of his shirt became undone and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, hints of ink peek out from where the skin was exposed. The two stand like that for a moment, swaying softly to the music the band has been playing.
“How about you let me make it up to you,” Wriothesley offers, pressing a kiss to Neuvillette’s shoulder as he stands back up. “Drinks on me?”
Neuvillette hums as if he were thinking over the offer, even as he lets Wriothesley lead him to the bar where Marette is quick to pour Neuvillette a glass of rosé. “If you want to spend time with me you only need to ask, Your Grace,” he says it offhandedly, as if his time and attention weren’t in high demand. Wriothesley considers it, trying to tamp down on the undeniably smug feeling that wells up in his chest.
“Have you considered, Madame, that I enjoy spoiling you?” Wriothesley asks lightly, making his way to the empty table in the corner. He relaxes into the seat as if it were a throne. Neuvillette slides into the booth beside him, wine glass being settled on the table with a gentle clink of the base as he smooths out his dress before relaxing into Wriothesley’s side. Under the table, Wriotheley stretches out his leg, grimacing at the prickling feeling that crawls up his thigh. Neuvillette sends him a knowing look over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip of his rosé.
“If you aren’t careful I might just ring you dry,” Neuvillette says with a snicker. Wriothesley shakes his head in amusement, playing with the long silver hair of the singer idly.
“And have me unable to afford to compensate the rest of my employees? Never knew you could be so greedy, dove,” Wriothesley jokes, watching the way Neuvillette’s eyes crinkle around the corners as he tries not to laugh.
“Quite the lawful thinking there, Your Grace,” Neuvillette says as he idly fans himself, eyes dancing with amusement.
Wriothesley squints, flicking him playfully in the shoulder. “Shush,” he admonishes jokingly, wrapping his arm around Neuvillette’s shoulder to bring him closer as the singer dissolves into quiet giggles. Conversation lulls between the two after that, Neuvillette relaxing against him with a content sigh. Wriothesley lets his mind wander as he continues to play with Neuvillette’s hair, twirling the strands around his fingers repeatedly. It must’ve been relaxing if the way Neuvillette seems to drift off against him was any indication. It was as if a bubble had formed encasing the two, the buzz of conversation happening around the bar nothing more than white noise.
He replays the conversation the two had in Neuvillette’s dressing room. He thinks about their relationship and how it is now. While it had its start as a business exchange, Wriothesley must admit he’s never quite stuck to that descriptor in the comfort of his own mind. Never mix business and pleasure. That was one of the cardinal rules, one that was irreversibly shattered the first time he woke up to see Neuvillette stretched out in bed beside him with the first rays of morning peeking through the window. If he were honest, which he rarely was when it didn’t involve Neuvillette, this relationship was much more than whiskey and rosé laced kisses.
“Your Grace! Just the man I was hoping to find!” And just like that the moment of serenity was broken. Wriothesley glances where the voice came from, already bemoaning talking with the owner of the voice. Taking the last steps up to the table was Dougier, his signature hat proudly sat on his head as if it weren’t an abomination.
“Monsieur Dougier,” Neuvillette greets before Wriothesley can make a snide quip at the man. Wriothesley lets out a small noise of discontent as the singer sits up properly, using his fan to hide a yawn as he regards the bank owner. “I thought you were out of town?”
“And miss your lovely performance? Madame I would never,” Dougier flatters the singer as he slides into the booth uninvited. “Though I was hoping I could speak to his grace about some important matters,” Dougier says, eyeing Neuvillette with a smile that borders on a sneer. Wriothesley lets his arm settle around Neuvillette’s shoulders, tracing along the sleeves that rest against his upper arms. “Important business matters,” Dougier emphasizes, gesturing for Neuvillette to leave with a flick of his hand. His smile strains when Neuvillette doesn’t move.
“By all means, don’t let me stop you,” Neuvillette says lightly, taking a sip of his drink. “Though I doubt you’ll get far,” he mutters quietly as he drinks his rosé.
“I was hoping we could speak in private,” Dougier says, his brow twitching slightly in irritation.
“The Madame can stay,” Wriothesley says with a sharp look to Dougier. “If this is about taking out a loan, I’m quite pleased to say I’ll have to decline such a generous offer.”
Dougier’s face twitches, the man unable to fully mask the displeasure from being turned down for the millionth time. Wriothesley isn’t too repentant of the fact either. Everyone knows how the Beret Society works under the seams. One favor turns to five turns to ten, then suddenly you’re indebted to a man all too willing to string you along to line his pockets with your mora. Dougier reaches into his pocket, sliding a green and black poker chip across the table. On the face of the poker chip in gold foil was the logo for Narzissenkruez Bank, which Dougier owned. Wriothesley only raises a brow at the man in response to the poker chip.
“Just think about it, won’t you?” Dougier insists, nodding to the chip. “A collaboration between the two of us could bring a bright future to Fleuve Cendre.”
“A bright future, eh?” Wriothesley muses, he takes a swig of his whiskey as he turns those words around. There was a spark of hope in the bank owner’s eyes at his pause. “What would bring a bright future would be the war ending,” he says, watching the ever hopeful spark in Dougier’s eye die out and turn sour as he spoke. Beside him, Neuvillette hums at the mention of the war, his fingers tracing meandering patterns over Wriothesley’s thigh.
“I was under the impression that His Grace was already in collaboration with Northland Bank?” the singer asks innocently. To anyone else it would seem like a harmless enough question, but the way Neuvillette watches Dougier with a keen interest belies the true intent. Wriothesley wonders if he should reconsider the type of people he surrounds himself with. Throwing a glance to the bar, he finds Eastinghouse slumped over the bar, drooling onto the surface if Wolsey’s disappointed look was anything to go by. That or the man was wanting to test out more concoctions on the scientist.
“You’d rather work with a Fatuu than domestic?” Dougier asks, the offense palpable in his tone.
“Meropide and the Northland Bank have been collaborating since before the war,” Wriothesley says pointedly. “And it has been quite the fulfilling collaboration even to this point.”
“Lord Arelcchinnlo also isn’t a Fatuu,” Neuvillette says, looking away from Dougier with a sniff. “While yes, she does have a Sheznayan citizenship, she is also a Fontainian citizen. So are her children.” Wriothesley whistles, quietly impressed, it’s been awhile since he’s seen Neuvillette develop an active dislike towards someone. It was to be expected with the comments Dougier made about Arlecchino. Neuvillette and Arlecchino were actually quite close, Neuvillette having been the one to introduce Wriothesley to the woman. That was also why Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet could often be found hanging around Neuvillette, as they were under his care when working at the speakeasy.
“Well this has been a completely useless conversation,” Wriothesley says, throwing back the rest of the whiskey. “I do hope you can find your way?” he asks Dougier, not really caring about the answer as he leans towards Neuvillette. He trails kisses along the singer’s shoulder, not caring to listen to the bank owner’s spluttering. Neuvillette hums in interest at the action, tipping his head towards Wriothesley.
“Your Grace,” Dougier insists with the tone of a scolding parent. Wriothesley pays him little mind as he continues with ministrations, kissing over the faint freckles sprinkled over Neuvillette’s pale shoulder.
“How far do you think we can push it before he gets the hint?” Wriothesley mumbles into the curve where Neuvillette’s shoulder meets his neck. Wriothesley gives into the urge to bite the skin teasingly, electing a quiet moan from Neuvillette. The singer was wearing perfume, hints of vanilla and something reminiscent of the ocean breeze intermingle pleasantly as Wriothesley breathed in. It was the same perfume that would linger in his sheets whenever Neuvillette stayed the night.
“Depends,” Neuvillette answers with a breathy whisper. His hand tangles in Wriothesley’s salt and pepper hair. The singer uses his hold to guide Wriothesley’s head up, indulging in kisses like the caramel candies that he enjoys. Neuvillette’s lip gloss clings to Wriothesley’s lips, the feeling still strange even after all this time. Wriothesley nips at Neuvillette’s bottom lip, tasting faint traces of the rosé the singer was drinking. “I didn’t know you were interested in this kind of thing.” Neuvillette says as they part, a pretty blush painting his cheeks a rosy pink under his makeup.
Wriothesley shakes his head with a chuckle, “Nah,” He says with a ruggish grin, “I prefer keeping you to myself.” He runs his hands up and down Neuvillette’s sides appreciatively. Counts his breaths, imagines the sound of his heart. Would it beat for him if he were to ask? Does it already? While his own heart wasn’t worth much, he would carve it out of his own chest if Neuvillette were to ask.
The singer raises a brow, his amusement obvious as he casts a glance around the bar. “It seems Dougier had enough of us,” Neuvillette muses absently carding his hand through Wriothesley’s hair as he looks at the man. Not for the first time Wriothesley wonders what the singer thinks when he looks at him. What image of Wriothesley has been crafted in his mind that makes him so relaxed in the man’s presence? Wriothesley knows they both have bloody pasts, you don't get to where they were now without a fair share of skeletons in the closet.
“Good for us then,” Wriothesley says unapologetic in his actions. Neuvillette’s laugh rings through his ears like a church bell as he wraps his arms around Wriothesley’s shoulders.
Neuvillette hums quietly as he tips his head to the side, regarding Wriothesley half lidded eyes and the same damning smile he had while singing on stage curling at his lips. “My dear Duke, I do hope you won’t be so cruel as not to finish what you started.”
Warmth settles in Wriothesley’s stomach as he leans in for a kiss. “Oh Madame, would I ever be so cruel to you?” He asks, extracting himself from the booth. He holds a hand out to the singer, helping Neuvillette out of the booth as he whisks him off towards the office he has in the backstage area. Many of the performers were out mingling with the patrons or on their way home. Neither of them pay much mind to the gazes that follow them, or the whispers that circulate when the office door lock clicks into place.
At night, Fontaine could be considered peaceful. If a city could ever be fully at peace that is. Neuvillette makes his way through the low lit streets of Fleuve Cendre, his long coat pulled tight around him to ward off the chill night brings. It was a familiar route through the concrete jungle, one that he could walk with his eyes closed if he were truly in need to do so. A stone skips along the paved road as his foot connects with it, clattering against a flickering lamp post before resting there. Neuvillette pays it little mind, too busy trying to keep an eye out as he makes his way back home from the speakeasy.
He didn’t know if it was amusing or not, the difference between him dressed to the nines as Madame compared to his usual self. As Madame, he had little to be worried about. Confidence was expected of someone when they were considered a high commodity, even if that demand made him feel more like an auction prize at times. When he wasn’t wearing his pearls however, the best descriptor Neuvillette could think for himself was a paranoid mess. Never going two steps without glancing over his shoulder, always double and triple checking if he had everything before locking his door on the way out. His mind was like a maze, shadows dancing along long stretches of its winding corridors. Logically, they were as harmless as a leaf billowing in the wind. Though sometimes it was as if the shadows hiding from the light grew a mind of their own. Whispering his worries until they become an all consuming nightmare that keeps him staring up at the ceiling at night hoping for a restless reprieve.
Even when working, he sees the anxiousness slipping through like a crack in a mirror. A knife slipped into the bottom of his heels. Some of his lip glosses were laced with a sedative. It was an assurance, knowing he always had a way out even when he wasn’t baiting someone into an intricately laid trap. Neuvillette can’t help but wonder how it feels not to be so stringent all the time.
He lets out an annoyed puff of air at the ache in his muscles. His pale skin must look like a tapestry underneath his clothes, one he’s sure Wriothesley is quite smug about. Perhaps indulging in fun in an office wasn't the best choice if the twinge in his back is anything to go by. Though he must admit he’s not in any hurry to change that. Blisters were forming on the heels of his feet that irritatingly rubbed against his shoes.
A loud yowl and a clattering echoes out from an alley, causing Neuvillette to flinch as he whips his head around to the sound. His heart pounds in his chest as he stills, zeroing in on the alley he was passing that the sound clambered out from. There was no other yowl, but the sound of trash cans being rattled continues for a long moment until that also stops. Whatever made the noise had most likely exhausted itself. Neuvillette tries to convince himself to just keep going, to pretend he never heard the noise and just collapse into a dreamless sleep, it’s not as if the alley is needed for him to get home.
Neuvillette makes his way to the alley. His heart pounding loudly in his ears, his hand gripping at the pocket knife stored in his jacket as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the alley. It was probably just raccoons, he tries to tell himself, there were plenty of them that scavenged for food in Fleuve Cendre. The Courts don’t quite care enough to keep them out of the poorer districts. Not that they would have the resources at the moment even if they did. Near the back end of the alley, which turns out to be a partial dead end with a chain link fence blocking off the other side, a trash can rattles again, a pathetic sounding whine coming from it that Neuvillette would not have been able to hear from the road. Peering into the can Neuvillette was greeted with a hiss, a scraggly cat with its ears pinned back growls at him.
“Oh,” Neuvillette can’t help but mutter. A sigh tumbles out of him as he shoves the pocket knife back into his jacket. It was just a cat, one with matted fur that Neuvillette can see fleas make a home in. He could count its ribs with how skinny the poor thing was, what he thinks is a calico patterning dull from all the grime. “Poor thing,” he mumbles, ignoring the warning growl and weak swipe of claws as he tips the trash can on its side slowly, making sure the cat doesn’t get knocked around too much. Instead of making a break for it like he assumed it would, it huddles further into the trash can as it hisses at him. “I can’t help you if you act like that dear,” Neuvillette mumbles to the cat, feeling only mildly foolish at the fact that he’s trying to soothe a cat.
As if responding to him, the cat growls in displeasure, watching him wearily as he peers into the trash can tipped on its side. Neuvillette looks around trying to come up with a way to lure the cat out to him without having to reach too far into the trash can. He sighs in relief as he sees a corner store across the street, still open despite the night getting older. Pushing himself up from where he was crouched, he hesitates for a second. “I’ll be right back I promise, okay dear?” Neuvillette says, soothing his own nerves more than the cat's.
He jogs over to the corner store, quickly scouring the shelves before grabbing a pack of canned tuna. The store was practically deserted, there were two people sitting at a small table by the window. One was a man wearing a garde uniform, his hat discarded on the table and a smartly dressed woman who had hair half done up with braids. They were sipping cups of coffee with lazy steam curling into the air, a chocolate croissant seemingly being shared between the two of them. Behind the counter was a younger woman, her eyes closed as she hums along quietly to the radio that's playing. Neuvillette stops by the coffee bar, quickly pouring himself a cup of coffee before making his way to the counter to check out.
“Hello!” the woman greets with a pleasant smile as he sets his stuff down. She blinks slowly, her limbs moving through molasses as the late hour clings to her. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.” He can’t pay fast enough, quickly exchanging the mora when the cashier says the price and quickly making his way back to the alley.
The relief he feels crouching down beside the trash can to see the cat still there was palpable. Neuvillette isn’t quite sure why he feels so much worry over an alley cat, setting the thought aside for later as he sets his coffee down beside him. He pries one can of tuna open, settling the can close enough to the cat for it to get to.
The cat sniffs the tuna, its tail flicking in interest as it shuffles closer to the can. It’s then that Neuvillette realizes why the cat didn’t run when the trash can was tipped over, or even when he ran to the corner store. One of its back legs is broken, the leg bent weirdly even as the cat held it close to itself. Neuvillette sits there for a long minute, watching the cat greedily eat the tuna it was offered.
“Somehow I doubt you have an owner,” Neuvillette says. He grabs the cup of coffee, sitting down properly on the cold ground, having nothing better to do. He sips at the drink, letting its heat burn his tongue. It wasn’t exactly the best coffee he’s ever had, though it worked well enough to keep his fingers warm. “Even if you did, I wouldn't be exactly thrilled to return you.”
Neuvillette groans in realization, already imagining the pleading eyes of Furina when he brings the cat home. Not like she’ll need to plead too much. Neuvillette can already feel himself becoming attached to the cat and all it’s done is hiss at him. He should’ve just walked away, Neuvillette thinks with a sigh. He gets up slowly, tilting the can more for the cat to slide down its side slowly while it's distracted by the tuna. Slipping his jacket off his shoulders, he wraps it around the cat quickly, wincing as the cat starts to hiss at him. “Yes I know,” he says while securing his grip on the cat wrapped in his coat. Though notably, the cat doesn’t try to fight him or wriggle out of the coat when he picks it up. “I hope you know this was quite a nice coat,” he says, more talking to himself to fill the silence as he gathers everything he can. Without the protection of his coat, the chilly air is quick to cause goosebumps to raise along his arm.
With the cat now secured, he continues his walk back home, the weight of the animal oddly comforting, as light as it was. “We’ll have to take you to the vet tomorrow,” Neuvillette mumbles to the cat, carrying on with the one sided conversation as he makes his way home. “Furina will beg to be there I’m sure, though maybe not. She and Focalors are in college at the moment, midterms are coming up soon according to them.” Neuvillette hums to himself at the thought, he was proud of the both of them. In more ways than he can put into words, knowing that they have bright futures ahead of them. Futures that would make Flueve Cendre nothing more than a footnote in their lives.
“I always wanted to go to college,” he says quietly, shamefully. It was a secret he kept hidden under lock and key, even from his parents. He knew that they would have sacrificed everything they were grasping onto for him. When he was younger, and when their parents were still alive, he had dreams of applying to college. Of becoming a teacher and maybe settling down one day, starting a family of his own. However dreams are rarely meant to be he’s learned, though he refuses to let Furina and Focalors give up on theirs.
The rest of the walk back is quiet, Neuvillette unable to bring himself to speak anymore. Unless he goes spilling all of his secrets to a cat. Like how he went and found himself falling in love with the most infamous mafia boss within Fontaine. Neuvillette hums to himself as he thinks about the man, thinking about the first time they met makes him smile softly. Many people think he and Wriothesley met for the first time when Neuvillette was performing at a gentlemen’s club, having struck up a conversation at the bar after his set. It would’ve been a decade or so after the false reckoning, only a couple months after Wriothesley was released from prison. In truth, they met much earlier than that. Though that was in a time long gone, where their only worries were if a cookie was split evenly.
Neuvillette quickens his steps as he approaches his apartment building. An old crumbling brick of a building, only standing due to the efforts of the poor tenants that can barely afford rent as it is. The cat shifts in his arms, peering around the musty halls and reception area with a flick of its ear. He makes a beeline towards the stairs, trying to get up as quickly as possible without jostling the cat too much.
He fumbles with his jacket for a moment, searching for his keys as he approaches his apartment door. Sighing in relief when he’s able to close the door behind him, slumping against it with a tired groan. Neuvillette lets himself slip to the floor, his feet aching in his ill fitting shoes. The cat lets out a curious noise, peering up at him with a flick of an ear.
“Neuvi? Is that you?” A light flickers on, Focalors stands up from where she was curled up on the couch. She settles a book down on the coffee table before padding closer to him, her slippers shuffling across the floor.
“It’s late, why are you awake?” Neuvillette asks, kicking off his shoes, still slumped against the door. The cat hisses as Focalors approaches, causing the girl to still as she blinks down at the bundle cradled in Neuvillette’s lap.
“I was waiting for you,” Focalors says, crouching down. Her eyes don’t leave the cat, her expression soft in the lamp light. “I uh, wanted to talk to you actually,” she mumbles, her hand anxiously twirling a lock of her silver hair. It was grown past her waist, longer than Neuvillette’s own hair. Focalors was always attached to her hair, only ever allowing Neuvillette near it to cut off split ends and to braid it.
Exhaustion pulls at his bones. All he wants to do is to curl up at the bottom of the ocean floor and rot for the next century. He breathes in, exhaling a tired sigh as he smiles at his sister. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Focalors nods, her eyes dancing around the area. She takes a deep breath, the same way Neuvillette taught her to whenever she needed to calm her nerves. “You work for Cerberus.”
Neuvillette inhales sharply, holding the breath in his chest as Focalors looks back at him. Panic causes his heart to quicken as he stares at her. He was always exceedingly careful to keep his work with Wriothesley quiet. His sisters didn’t need to know the kinds of things he’s done, the blood he’s used to paint his nails. While he wasn’t always proud of the work he’s done, he can’t say he regrets it. After all, it keeps food on the table and allows the girls a chance at a better life. His hands shake as his grip on the cat tightens minutely.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks, his voice deadly calm as meets Focalors’ eyes.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she asks, her eyes widening as she stands up in shock. The girl paces over to the couch, her arms wrapping around herself tightly. Neuvillette sighs quietly, pushing himself up off the floor with a grunt. His coffee and the pack of tuna are left by the front door as he steps over his discarded shoes. “Why would you work for him?”
Neuvillette hums, making his way through the living room. “It pays the bills, doesn’t it?”
Focalors whips her head around at that, her brows furrowing indignantly. “There has to be another way. There has to be something else we can do. You can leave, right? Get a job somewhere else?” She sounds desperate as she follows him down the hall to the bathroom. “Furina and I can-“
“Finish college,” Neuvillette interrupts her, stepping into the bathtub. He lowers the cat down, careful not to jostle its broken leg as he unwinds the jacket. In better lighting, he can see a myriad of scratches and rashes, her fur missing patches with the skin an irritated red. Her paws too were covered in grime, the claws curling in on themselves in a way that makes Neuvillette wince. He sighs quietly in disappointment, knowing the jacket is a lost cause at this point. He spreads it out on the bottom of the tub, letting the cat use it as a blanket to keep her off the cold porcelain. She seems to enjoy it, rolling on her less injured side with a quiet purr.
“That’s not- that’s not fair!” Focalor says, her voice warbling as she tries to think of a solution to an imaginary problem.
Neuvillette steps out of the tub, regarding the girl leaning against the counter tiredly. “Anything is rarely fair,” he says kindly. Neuvillette reaches out, gently tucking silver bangs behind Focalor’s ear as he smiles softly. “But I’d rather do this a million times over if it means you and Furina can sleep in a bed at night.”
“What about you?” she asks. The frustrated tears remind Neuvillette of a kaleidoscope he once had when he was a kid, the bathroom light reflecting in her eyes like a fractured mirror. Focalors wipes them away before he can, scrubbing at her eyes until her cheeks are red.
“What about me?” Neuvillette shrugs, making his way out of the bathroom to pick up the items by the front door. He takes a sip of the coffee, the beverage has gone cold by now, however, he still lets the taste wash over his tongue.
“You always told Furina and I that we should hold onto our dreams. That if we tried hard enough that one day we’ll grasp the stars. So what about you? What about your dreams?” Focalors demands, her tone of voice is a familiar one. It was the one she would practice in the mirror, always insisting that if she kept working on it then one day she’ll sound like a real lawyer. Neuvillette thinks it sounds pretty accurate already. “You can’t tell me that working for Cerberus is honestly something you dreamed of.” Neuvillette doesn’t respond for a long second, too many words crowding his tongue.
He leans against the kitchen counter, sipping at the coffee, having nothing better to do with it and not eager to pour it down the drain. Focalors stands across from him in the small kitchen, her arms crossed as she watches him. Neuvillette looks down, popping the lid off the travel cup and watching the coffee swirl around as his mind wanders to Wriothesley. What Focalors doesn’t know is that he quite enjoys the man’s company. It was a comfort, knowing that the other would be there at his side. A warm hand on his hip or gentle kisses that he would greedily luxuriate in like a spoiled cat. Knowing that if he chooses to peer through blinding lights he will spot the man. The way he always has honeyed words ready, seemingly dead set on flattering Neuvillette any chance he gets.
If Neuvillette had to describe Wriothesley, he wouldn’t know where to start. How do you describe someone that you would consider your other half? How could you explain the intricacies that come with knowing someone so thoroughly it would feel as if you were missing a lung without them? How does he articulate that the haunting corridors that make up his mind feel a little less daunting whenever Wriothesley is there? That the man has a way of drawing him out of the dimly lit maze of his mind and lets him enjoy the sunlight without worrying about what may or not be two steps behind him. The way nights spent tangled in the sheets, hours ticking away as they do nothing but talk about meaningless things are some of Neuvillette's favorite moments.
“Sometimes, people just aren’t meant to dream,” he says quietly. It was something he realized when he was younger, standing in the rubble of what used to be his home, cradling his sisters in his arms. Praying to gods he never had much faith in. A simple revelation, one that was as mundane as a light being flicked on. Some people were made to have their names written in the history books, known for generations to come. Others have their names lit up in lights at the opera, pulling in crowds that can’t help but adore them. And some were to have their names whispered in the shadows, a lingering boogeyman that peers around the corners and takes up haunting the empty space in the back of your mind.
“That’s bullshit,” Focalors says vehemently, the tears she scrubbed away in the bathroom trailing down her cheeks as she slams a fist on the counter. Exhaustion crawls up his legs, pricking at his skin like thorns on vines as he watches her think of and discard hundreds of ideas. Thousands of different words fight to be spoken, but none win, instead her shoulders slump as she lets out a shaky sigh.
“You don’t have to like it,” Neuvillette says softly. Setting his coffee on the counter as he gently coaxes his sister into a hug. Focalors slumps against him, her hand coming up to clutch at his shirt as she buries her head into his shoulder. “But it is my job to make sure you and Furina are safe and well cared for. Working with His Grace lets me do that.”
“Why does it have to be you?” she mumbles into his shirt.
“Because I’d rather it be me than either of you,” Neuvillette murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his sister’s head. “Either way, it’s late and you should be asleep,” he says. Focalors grumbles as she pulls away. Neuvillette can’t help but laugh at the glare he receives, having been on the other end of both the twins’ glares more than enough times in his life. Even then they have little effect on him, considering the type of people he regularly works with. “Go to bed,” he says softly, urging her to her room with a gentle push of her shoulders.
Focalors grumbles at him, pausing by the entrance of the kitchen as she looks back at him. “You would tell us if you needed help?”
Neuvillette looks at her, for a second she’s just a kid again with watery eyes peering up at him after having a bad dream. The only thing he would ever ask of both Focalors and Furina is to live their lives to the fullest, even if to achieve that he were to fall to the wayside. He smiles at her. “Of course,” Neuvillette says, the lie tasting like poisoned fruit on his tongue. Focalors nods in relief, smiling at him tiredly before shuffling off to her room. Neuvillette stands in the kitchen for a long moment, rooted into place like a Remurian statue. He shakes his head, filling up a shallow bowl with water and grabbing another can of tuna. He makes his way to the bathroom, turning the lamp in the living room off on his way.
Quietly, he settles on the floor by the tub, setting the bowl of water close enough for the cat to get to. He slumps against the lip of the bathtub, watching the cat sniff at both the water and the now opened can of tuna curiously before laying back down. Neuvillette wonders if she’ll make it through the night. He tries not to let hope fester in his chest despite how much he wants her to survive. Even if she is doomed to die, Neuvillette hopes she can hold out long enough to slumber peacefully in her own skin.
The prickling vines of exhaustion make its way to his shoulders, his eyes lulling shut as he pillows his head on his arms. Stubbornly, he keeps his eyes open to peer at the cat. “You’re safe now, y’know,” he murmurs to her, a crackling purr his response. “It’s alright if you want to rest now dear, no one will blame you.” Unbidden, his eyes slip close. Slowly, like a mother rocking her child, he gives into the exhaustion that hums like a lullaby in the back of his mind.
When Neuvillette wakes up, he can’t quite remember falling asleep. There was a blanket draped over his shoulders, and the unforgiving bathroom floor digs in his knees. Blinking as he looks into the tub, the cat was paying little attention to him, instead playing with a loose thread of the jacket. Neuvillette sits up from where he was slumped over, letting out a tired groan as he stretches, the blanket slipping off his shoulders and pooling on the floor around him. He was getting far too old to spend nights slumped on the bathroom floor. “Good morning, dear,” Neuvillette murmurs to the cat. The cat looks up at him curiously, a croaking thing of a meow his response. Neuvillette has to stifle the coo that bubbles up at the noise. He notes with relief that the cat seems to be eating, part of the tuna picked from the can and strewn messily across the jacket. “Well, you have an exciting day ahead of you,” Neuvillette says while standing up with a wince. “Considering you definitely need a trip to the vet.”
The cat does her croak of a meow again, going back to playing with the loose string of his jacket. A knock at the front door startles Neuvillette, a succinct three thuds beaten against the wood. His brow furrows, there are very few people who know his address. Even fewer that would ever knock. He makes his way to the door, more of a shuffle than anything as his legs protest the night spent on the cold tile.
The three knocks ring out again, Neuvillette rolling his eyes quietly as he unlocks the door. Peering out through the door, Neuvillette blinks in confusion. Standing in the hall was a man with a well groomed mustache in a garde’s uniform with a solemn expression on his face. In his hands, he was holding what looked like a metal box with the Palais Insignia and a Fontainian flag. Neuvillette feels dread take root in his stomach.
“Are you Monsieur Neuvillette?” the garde asks, soft spoken and quiet. Neuvillette nods, words evading him as the garde bows his head, with a pained furrow to his brow. Neuvillette can just make out the glimmer of tears in the man’s eyes. “I’m Sergeant Esmond. I worked closely with Captain Vautrin. In the event of his death, he had asked me to personally deliver the news and any personal belongings of his to you.”
Neuvillette stumbles back, hand gripping onto the door handle with a white knuckled grip, his breath catching in his throat as tears sting at his eyes. “No,” he whispers in a rush. “No he promised- he can’t be.”
Esmond bows his head lower. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if it were his fault that Vautrin passed in battle. And maybe it was, maybe there was a story that Neuvillette was unaware about. Not that he has his bearings to ask at the moment. Esmond holds out the box out to Neuvillette, looking up at him with a pained expression. “As requested, his personal belongings are yours. I’m sorry for your loss.” Reaching out with shaking hands, he grabs the box and flag, noting the way Esmond’s hands tighten around them for a brief second before releasing them. The metal chills his hands where they make contact with it.
Neuvillette doesn’t really want condolences. There was an impulse to just throw the damned box out. Chuck it into the ocean and let the waves do what it pleases with it. Take matches and light the flag that does nothing but taunt him that his friend is dead. He doesn’t want Vautrin’s belongings. He wants the man to show up at his door, luggage behind him and an annoyingly pleased grin on his face. He wants the man to take up space, to make stupid jokes and laugh loudly at himself. He wants his friend here and breathing. Spewing random facts that he never bothers to check, talking about his day and needling Neuvillette about being a worrywart over the smallest scrapes.
He doesn’t want to think about an obituary, about what words need to be on a headstone. Neuvillette always hated the idea of his friend becoming a martyr, going out in a blaze of glory as he always called it.
“Thank you,” Neuvillette whispers. The words clogging his throat, he thinks he might just drown in it. Esmond nods, backing away from the door with unsteady steps before making his way back down the hall. Neuvillette nudges the door closed with his foot, clinging to the metal box and flag as if they were a bogey at sea.
“You bastard,” Neuvillette whispers as he crumples onto the couch. Suddenly the idea of sending the box out to sea fills him with an all consuming fear. “You were supposed to come home.”