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The rain began as a whisper. A gentle patter against the grand windows of the Palais Mermonia, the sound threading itself into the hush of the chamber like a secret. At first, it was nothing. An idle drizzle, the kind that graced Fontaine’s afternoons when the sky had no quarrel with the world. But then—then it swelled. A downpour, fat droplets striking the glass, their rhythm erratic, desperate, loud. The sort of rain that had meaning.
Neuvillette closed his eyes.
How unfortunate.
How predictable.
How utterly mortifying.
Across the chamber, Wriothesley stood with his arms crossed, his expression somewhere between intrigue and amusement. The Duke of Meropide had no right looking as he did—leaning so casually against Neuvillette’s desk as if it were his own, his wolf-gray hair slightly tousled from his trip above the waters. He was not dressed for courtly appearances, nor for any official summons, and yet he carried himself with that effortless confidence, the kind that unraveled Neuvillette in ways he dared not voice.
“You know,” Wriothesley mused, tilting his head as a fresh roll of thunder rumbled overhead, “I think I’m beginning to notice a pattern.”
Neuvillette inhaled through his nose. “A pattern?”
“Mhm.” Wriothesley’s eyes flicked to the window. “Every time I say something particularly interesting, Fontaine gets an unscheduled shower.”
Neuvillette stiffened. He smoothed a hand down his vest, willing himself to appear composed, dignified, unbothered. “It is merely a coincidence.”
Wriothesley made a thoughtful noise, stepping closer. “Coincidence, huh?”
“Yes.”
Another step.
“Purely circumstantial?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Closer still.
Neuvillette could feel the weight of Wriothesley’s gaze—sharp yet indulgent, like a predator toying with its prey but not quite ready to sink its teeth in. It was infuriating how effortlessly the man unsettled him. Infuriating how Wriothesley had learned to read him so well, how he had discovered the cracks in Neuvillette’s carefully sculpted mask.
The rain thickened.
Wriothesley was insufferable.
And, perhaps, Neuvillette was in love with him.
But that was a thought too dangerous to entertain.
Instead, he exhaled, straightening his posture. “If you are here only to make baseless accusations, I suggest you return to the Fortress.”
Wriothesley chuckled. “Baseless? You wound me, Neuvillette.”
There it was—that familiar baritone, smooth as aged whiskey, laced with an amusement that made Neuvillette’s pulse do unspeakable things. And the way he said his name. Without title, without formality. As if they were something more than what duty allowed.
A violent downpour slammed against the windows.
Wriothesley grinned. “Hah. There it is again.”
Neuvillette turned away sharply, his throat tight. “You are mistaken.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
Liar.
Neuvillette swallowed hard, his hands curling at his sides. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, betraying him, and Wriothesley—damn him—was reveling in it.
The Duke leaned in, voice dropping to something low, something private. “I wonder… what was it I said this time?”
Neuvillette held his breath. He could not—would not—dignify that with an answer.
But his silence was answer enough.
Wriothesley hummed, pleased with himself, and Neuvillette hated the way his stomach twisted at the sound. Hated the way his body reacted to the mere presence of the man. Hated the way—
“You’re blushing.”
Neuvillette turned away completely, walking briskly toward his desk as if distance could save him. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“Your perception is flawed.”
“My perception is impeccable.”
Neuvillette groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wriothesley.”
“Hm?”
“Leave.”
“Make me.”
The rain crashed down in sheets.
Neuvillette felt something fray inside him, some delicate thread of restraint pulled too taut. He had known Wriothesley was relentless—had spent years watching him maneuver the political undercurrents of Fontaine with that damnable smirk, weaving through arguments like a wolf prowling the edge of its territory. But this—this—was something else entirely.
This was Wriothesley cornering him.
And Neuvillette had nowhere to run.
A hand ghosted near his wrist. Not touching, but close enough to brand.
“Do you really want me to go?” Wriothesley’s voice was softer now. Less teasing, more searching.
Neuvillette’s fingers twitched.
He should say yes.
He should order it, make it law, conjure the authority he had spent centuries perfecting and cast Wriothesley away like an ill-timed storm.
And yet.
And yet.
His silence drowned him.
Wriothesley exhaled, something fond in the way he stepped back, giving Neuvillette the space he could not ask for. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Neuvillette’s lips parted—whether in protest or something else, he wasn’t sure—but Wriothesley was already moving. Already heading toward the door, leaving the scent of frost and iron and something unmistakably him in his wake.
A reprieve.
A mercy.
Neuvillette should have been relieved.
But instead—
“I—”
Wriothesley paused.
The words clung to Neuvillette’s throat, heavy, unspoken. The rain outside softened, as if holding its breath, waiting.
Waiting for him to decide.
“…Nothing,” Neuvillette said at last, retreating behind his walls. “It is nothing.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
Wriothesley chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he reached for the door. “See you soon, Chief Justice.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Neuvillette stood frozen, his heart an unsteady thing in his chest. The rain continued, steady, unrelenting.
He had made a mistake.
Or perhaps—
He had merely delayed the inevitable.
---
The rain did not stop.
Long after Wriothesley had gone, it lingered—steady, unrelenting, as if Fontaine itself refused to let him slip away so easily. It cascaded down the grand windows of the Palais Mermonia in slow, deliberate rivulets, like fingers tracing the curve of something delicate.
Neuvillette exhaled, pressing his palm against the cool glass, watching as the world beyond blurred beneath the weight of his own making. The city carried on, unbothered, its people accustomed to sudden storms with no clear cause. None but the most observant ever questioned it.
And Wriothesley, it seemed, was too observant.
Neuvillette closed his eyes.
How could he have been so careless? He was meant to be composed. Untouchable. The living embodiment of Fontaine’s justice—unmoved by mortal whims, above the frivolities of longing.
And yet.
And yet.
All it had taken was a few words, a teasing smile, and he had fractured.
He could still feel it—the warmth of Wriothesley’s proximity, the phantom touch that never quite landed but left its mark all the same. It was a presence that lingered, like the scent of the ocean clinging to one’s clothes long after they had left the shore.
Neuvillette curled his fingers into a fist.
This would not do.
He had ruled these waters for centuries. Held the laws of Fontaine in his hands, watched empires rise and fall, seen the tides of time shift endlessly before him. He was not some lovesick youth to be undone by a single man.
…But Wriothesley had never been just any man.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Neuvillette sighed, stepping away from the window. He needed distance. Clarity.
Above all, he needed to pretend that Wriothesley’s voice did not still echo in his mind.
"Make me."
He shuddered.
Utterly insufferable.
It was hours before he left his office.
Long enough for the rain to ease into something softer, though it did not stop entirely. The corridors of the Palais Mermonia were hushed at this hour, the candlelight flickering in golden pools against polished marble. It was late—late enough that most had retired, leaving the halls empty save for the occasional patrolling guard.
Neuvillette welcomed the solitude.
Or at least, he thought he did.
The air shifted before he heard the footsteps. Not the sharp, deliberate stride of a government official. Not the cautious, measured pace of an intruder.
No—this was something else. Something familiar.
Neuvillette halted, his pulse betraying him before his mind caught up. He did not have to turn to know.
“…You again.”
Wriothesley chuckled, low and indulgent. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”
Neuvillette inhaled slowly, composing himself before turning.
And there he was.
Wriothesley stood at the far end of the corridor, arms folded, expression unreadable save for the ever-present glint of amusement dancing in his storm-gray eyes. He was dressed much the same as earlier—his coat unbuttoned, collar loose, the kind of casual dishevelment that suggested he had not been in a hurry to return to the Fortress.
Neuvillette’s gaze flickered downward before he could stop himself.
His sleeves were pushed up.
That was dangerous.
A distraction.
A foolish thing to notice, and yet—
“You should be in Meropide.”
Wriothesley shrugged. “And yet, here I am.”
Neuvillette narrowed his eyes. “Do you make a habit of disregarding your responsibilities?”
“I could ask you the same.” Wriothesley tilted his head. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
Neuvillette bristled. “I do not require rest.”
A pause. Then—
“That’s a damn shame,” Wriothesley murmured.
Something in his voice was different this time. Less teasing. Softer.
Neuvillette hated how easily it caught him off guard.
He straightened. “If you are here to continue your previous attempts at provoking me, I would advise you to reconsider.”
Wriothesley hummed, stepping closer. “And if I’m here for something else?”
Neuvillette tensed. “Then state your intentions plainly.”
Wriothesley stopped just shy of arm’s length. Close enough that Neuvillette could see the faint scar along his jaw, the way his breath curled slightly in the cool air between them.
“I think you already know,” Wriothesley said quietly.
The rain began again, heavier this time.
Neuvillette’s throat went dry.
This was dangerous. This was foolish.
This was—
Wriothesley took another step.
Too close.
Neuvillette’s breath hitched.
And then—
A hand at his wrist.
Not forceful nor demanding.
Grounding.
Steady.
Neuvillette froze.
The weight of it sent a jolt through him, something sharp and electric, like the first crash of thunder before a storm. It was too much.
But he didn’t pull away. He should have, but he didn’t.
Wriothesley’s grip was warm, his thumb barely brushing the inside of Neuvillette’s wrist—an idle, absentminded thing, as if he were testing the waters.
A touch, nothing more.
And yet.
Neuvillette felt something break. His breath came shallow, his composure slipping like sand through his fingers. He could hear the rain pounding against the roof now, restless, relentless, betraying him in ways he could no longer ignore.
Wriothesley exhaled, watching him closely.
Then, after a long moment—
“I knew it.”
Neuvillette flinched. “You—”
“It is you,” Wriothesley murmured, voice tinged with something dangerously close to wonder. “The rain.”
Neuvillette’s world tilted.
He jerked his wrist free, stepping back as if burned. “You are mistaken.”
Wriothesley studied him, gaze sharp. Calculating. Then, slowly, he smiled.
A real one.
Something softer, something worse.
Neuvillette’s pulse roared in his ears.
“I see,” Wriothesley said, his tone light, but there was something behind it. Something knowing.
Neuvillette swallowed hard.
This was a mistake.
Wriothesley tilted his head, watching him for a beat longer before finally stepping back, relenting. “I’ll let you go—for now.”
Neuvillette did not move. Could not move.
The air between them remained charged, heavy with things unsaid, the rain outside still unforgiving in its intensity. But Wriothesley only turned, hands in his pockets, as if this had been nothing more than a passing conversation.
As if he hadn’t just changed everything.
“I’ll see you soon, Neuvillette.”
And then, like before—
He was gone. Leaving Neuvillette standing in the wreckage of himself.
The rain did not stop. It would not stop.
Not for a long, long time.
---
Neuvillette did not dream. Or rather, he did not allow himself to. Dreams were a mortal thing, fleeting and fickle, shaped by the subconscious whims of human frailty. They were illusions, a trick of the mind, nothing more.
And yet—
That night, he did not sleep, but he dreamed.
He dreamed of rain. Not the soft, whispering kind that kissed the surface of Fontaine’s canals, nor the lazy drizzle that clung to rooftops in the early hours of morning. No, this was deluge, thunderous and unrelenting, the kind of downpour that swallowed the world whole, turning streets into rivers and rivers into endless, unfathomable depths.
He stood at the edge of it, just beyond its reach.
And in the distance, across the endless expanse of water, a shadow stood waiting.
A man.
Neuvillette knew, without needing to see, who it was.
The realization struck him like lightning.
The waves rose, clawing at the shore. The air was thick with something electric, something alive, and though he did not move, he could feel it pulling at him—like the tide, like the current, like the inevitability of a storm that had already begun.
And then—
A voice.
"Come on, Neuvillette. You can’t hide from me forever."
The water surged.
Neuvillette jolted awake.
The rain had not stopped. It clung to Fontaine like a lover unwilling to part, mist curling against the windows of the Palais Mermonia, the streets slick with its ceaseless embrace.
Neuvillette sat at his desk, unmoving. His fingers rested lightly on the surface of a half-written decree, but his mind was elsewhere.
Wriothesley.
The name alone was enough to send another ripple through him, a quiet tremor beneath the surface of his carefully maintained composure.
It had been hours since their last encounter, yet the weight of it lingered. The touch at his wrist, fleeting yet unshakable. The way Wriothesley had looked at him—not with the teasing amusement of a man playing a game, but with something sharper. Something dangerous.
As if he had seen something Neuvillette had spent centuries keeping hidden.
He exhaled slowly.
This was untenable.
He needed distance.
He needed control.
And yet, when his attendant arrived with the day’s schedule, he did not refuse the final item listed.
A routine inspection of the Fortress of Meropide.
How convenient.
The descent into the Fortress was uneventful. The waters parted for him as they always did, obedient and unquestioning. The guards bowed as he passed, murmuring their greetings with the usual reverence.
All was in order.
And yet.
Neuvillette could feel it before he saw him.
Wriothesley’s presence was like an undercurrent, subtle but undeniable, threading itself into the air, into the walls, into the very foundation of this place.
And then—
The door to the administrator’s office swung open.
Wriothesley did not look surprised to see him.
If anything, he looked pleased.
“Ah, Monsieur Neuvillette.” He leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Neuvillette hesitated.
A mistake.
Because Wriothesley’s eyes caught it—like a wolf catching the scent of something interesting—and his smile turned wicked.
“…Don’t tell me you missed me already.”
The rain outside roared.
Neuvillette inhaled sharply.
“That is not why I am here.”
“Mm.” Wriothesley tilted his head. “If you say so.”
His tone was infuriating.
And yet—
Neuvillette was acutely aware of how close they were.
The office was not small, but somehow, Wriothesley always managed to make it feel smaller. Or perhaps it was the way he carried himself—so at ease, so present, as if he belonged anywhere he chose to be.
As if he belonged here.
Neuvillette straightened, willing himself to focus. “I am here on official business.”
“I’m sure you are.” Wriothesley’s gaze flickered, taking him in. “You look tired.”
Neuvillette bristled. “I do not tire.”
“Right. Of course.” Wriothesley chuckled, shaking his head.
He stepped closer.
Not much. Just enough.
Enough that Neuvillette could smell the faint traces of bergamot and sea salt clinging to him, something dark and warm beneath it, something distinctly him. Enough that Neuvillette could feel the heat of him—human warmth, solid and grounding, so different from the cold press of endless rain.
It was infuriating and intoxicating.
Neuvillette did not move again.
Wriothesley studied him for a long moment, then—
His voice dropped, softer now.
“I wonder…”
Neuvillette swallowed. “You wonder what?”
“If you’ve ever let anyone take care of you.”
The words were simple. Casual, even. But they unraveled Neuvillette completely.
The storm surged, rain slamming against the windows with newfound fury, as if the sky itself had gasped.
Wriothesley’s expression shifted.
Neuvillette’s breath hitched. “I—”
Wriothesley reached out.
Not to grab, not to restrain. Just to touch.
A hand at his forearm. Barely there, light as a whisper.
And yet—
Neuvillette broke.
The rain poured harder.
Wriothesley exhaled.
“…I see.”
Neuvillette could not speak. Could not move again either.
He was drowning, not in water, but in this, in the unbearable weight of being seen. And Wriothesley—damn him—was steady.
Unshaken.
The silence stretched, thick as the storm outside.
Then, finally—
A quiet murmur, low and steady.
“I won’t push.”
Neuvillette’s breath shuddered.
Wriothesley’s thumb brushed his sleeve, a slow, grounding motion.
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
The rain did not stop.
But for the first time in a long, long time—
Neuvillette was not sure he wanted it to.
He did not move, nor did he pull away. That, more than anything, was telling.
For centuries, he had remained untouchable. Not in the way mortals used the word—not as a status, not as a privilege—but as a fact, a truth as immovable as the tides.
Water did not yield to hands, nor did it bend to embrace.
And yet—
Wriothesley’s fingers rested at the barest edge of his sleeve, neither demanding nor hesitant, simply present.
As if he had all the time in the world.
As if he knew something Neuvillette did not.
The storm had not abated.
Fontaine remained draped in its ceaseless downpour, each drop a whisper against the windows, a song against the stone.
Wriothesley’s eyes were not unkind.
They were steady, patient—deep as the ocean, dark as the depths of something Neuvillette could not name.
His voice, when it came, was softer than before.
“You’re trembling.”
Neuvillette blinked.
He was?
How strange.
He looked down at his own hands, at the way his fingers curled ever so slightly where they rested at his sides. No tremor, no quake. His breathing remained even, composed.
And yet—
Wriothesley only watched him, gaze unreadable.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”
Neuvillette’s jaw tightened.
He was breathing.
He was fine.
This was nothing. It was nothing.
So why did his heart feel like it was caught in a current, pulled toward something inevitable, something—
“I won’t push,” Wriothesley had said.
And yet, wasn’t this pushing?
Not in the way Neuvillette had always feared, not in the way mortals grasped and pulled and demanded.
This was something else entirely.
Something gentler. Something infinitely worse.
Wriothesley’s touch remained, light and certain, the warmth of it grounding.
He did not say anything else. And that—more than anything—was his undoing.
Neuvillette exhaled.
A decision.
Not one he understood or had planned, but a decision all the same.
He reached out. It was not graceful. Not composed. The movement was stiff, uncertain, fingers hesitating in the space between them.
But Wriothesley did not move away. If anything, his expression softened like a man who had seen this storm coming long before Neuvillette himself had.
And when Neuvillette’s fingertips brushed against the back of Wriothesley’s hand—
The rain shuddered.
Wriothesley inhaled, sharp and quiet.
And then—
A whisper of a smile.
“See?” he murmured. “Not so difficult.”
Neuvillette did not reply.
He could not.
His hand remained there, a mere ghost of a touch, a thing fragile and uncertain.
But it was real, and that was enough for now.
It did not stop there. It could not. Once a dam had cracked, the water did not still.
It moved. It rushed.
It drowned.
So, when Wriothesley found him again later that evening—when he leaned against the railing of the lower levels of the Fortress, hands in his pockets, eyes glinting beneath the dim golden light—Neuvillette did not turn away. Did not run.
Did not deny what had already begun.
“You’re still here,” Wriothesley observed.
Neuvillette inclined his head. “Should I not be?”
Wriothesley chuckled. “You tell me.”
A test.
A challenge.
Neuvillette exhaled. “I wished to see the waters at this hour.”
“Mm.” Wriothesley pushed off the railing, stepping closer. “Is that all?”
No.
But Neuvillette did not say that. Instead, he turned to the view before them—the vast, dark stretch of water, endless and deep. The Fortress stood as an island upon it, a lone monument against the tide.
“Do you not find it remarkable?” he murmured.
Wriothesley tilted his head. “What?”
Neuvillette gestured to the waves below. “This.”
Wriothesley looked.
Then, after a moment—
“I suppose,” he said. “But I’d say you’re far more remarkable.”
Neuvillette’s breath hitched.
The rain fell harder.
Wriothesley laughed.
And that—
That was entirely unacceptable.
“You’re doing it again,” he teased.
Neuvillette bristled. “I am not.”
“You are.” Wriothesley turned, leaning in slightly. “You get all flustered, and the sky loses its mind. It’s adorable.”
Neuvillette scowled. “The weather is simply volatile.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I have no control over such trivial—”
“Neuvillette.”
His name was a warning.
Soft. Amused.
Dangerous.
Neuvillette swallowed.
And then—
Wriothesley reached out. His fingertips against Neuvillette’s chin. Barely there. Just enough to tilt his head upward, just enough to make him look.
And oh.
Neuvillette did look.
And Wriothesley was right there.
So close. So warm.
The distance between them was not distance at all. It was a breath, a whisper, a mere thought of space.
And then—
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Because Wriothesley leaned in, and Neuvillette let him.
The kiss was not demanding. It was not desperate, nor was it hurried.
It was—
Soft.
A slow, deliberate press of lips.
A question, not a claim.
A tide, not a storm.
Neuvillette did not understand it. He did not know what to do with it.
But he did not pull away. Instead, his hands curled against the railing behind him, gripping it like an anchor, like a tether to reality.
Wriothesley’s lips moved against his—gentle, patient. He did not take. He gave.
Neuvillette shuddered.
The rain sang.
And when Wriothesley pulled back, just enough to look at him—just enough to see the storm in Neuvillette’s eyes—he smiled. And then, softly—
“I told you,” Wriothesley murmured.
Neuvillette blinked. “Told me what?”
Wriothesley chuckled, brushing his knuckles against Neuvillette’s jaw.
“That you wouldn’t drown.”
Neuvillette inhaled.
The storm settled.
And for the first time in centuries—
He believed it.
And still, he did not pull away.
Even when the kiss had ended, when the rain had slowed to something soft and steady, when Wriothesley had drawn back just enough to watch him—he did not move.
He could not move.
For centuries, he had been the tide, distant and untouchable. He had been the watcher, the keeper of balance, the quiet force behind Fontaine’s ever-turning wheels of justice. He had witnessed the rise and fall of nations, had seen the sky change a thousand times over.
And yet—
This moment.
This man.
It was as if the world had tilted, as if everything he had known had been rewritten in the space of a single breath.
Wriothesley’s fingers remained where they had lingered—just at the edge of his jaw, a touch neither demanding nor fleeting. Just there.
Steady, present.
And Neuvillette—he wanted. He had never known what it meant to want before. Not like this. Not like the way his chest ached at the absence of Wriothesley’s lips against his own. Not like the way his breath felt uneven, his thoughts scattered, as if his very being had been shaken loose.
He had always thought himself above such things.
Above longing. Above need.
But here he was. Drowning in it.
And Wriothesley—damn him—only smiled.
“See?” he murmured, voice low, intimate. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Neuvillette swallowed. His lips parted, but nothing came.
What could he possibly say?
What words existed for this?
For the weight of the ocean pressing against his ribs, for the storm that still lingered just beneath his skin?
The silence stretched between them, thick as mist, charged as the air before a lightning strike.
And then—
Neuvillette moved with a force that startled even himself. Wriothesley barely had time to react before Neuvillette was kissing him again.
And this time—
There was no hesitation. No careful testing of waters.
This was deliberate. This was Neuvillette pressing forward, his hands finding purchase against Wriothesley’s shoulders, his breath uneven but certain.
Wriothesley made a sound—something low and pleased, something that sent a tremor through Neuvillette’s very core. Then he was gripping Neuvillette’s waist, fingers firm, grounding, real.
And the kiss deepened.
The rain surged once more, a sudden, crashing downpour that rattled against the metal and stone of the Fortress, echoing through the vast, open space.
Wriothesley laughed into the kiss—muffled, breathless.
“Again?” he murmured against Neuvillette’s lips.
Neuvillette did not answer. He simply took.
He did not know what had changed. Only that something had. That the dam had broken, that the waters had risen, that something within him had shifted in a way that could not be undone.
Wriothesley pulled him closer.
And Neuvillette—
Neuvillette let him.
There was no resistance. No logic. No careful consideration of consequences.
Just this.
The warmth of Wriothesley’s hands. The press of his body. The way he fit against Neuvillette, like something that had always been meant to be there, something inevitable.
And oh—
Oh, how inevitable it had always been.
Wriothesley broke the kiss first, but only just. Only to press his forehead against Neuvillette’s, to breathe the same air, to be.
His voice was a whisper.
“You’re easy to fall in love with, you know that?”
Neuvillette’s breath hitched.
He did not know what to do with that. With the softness of it.
With the weight of it.
With the quiet, undeniable truth of it.
He had spent centuries with his hands open, letting all things slip through. But Wriothesley—
Wriothesley was still here. Still holding on.
And Neuvillette—
He wanted to hold on, too.
So he did.
For the first time in his long, long existence—
He held on.
And outside, the rain did not stop.
But for once—
For the first time in centuries—
It did not fall because he was lonely.
It fell because he was full.