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All Neuvillette has to do is blink, some days, and then people are gone.
It’s of no surprise. Human lives are not like that of dragons. Their lives are short. Flickers of a candle flame. They glow so bright and then are snuffed out. Wisps of smoke remain for a little bit, tiny reminders of the bodies that once walked on the cobblestone roads of Fontaine.
And then, they’re gone.
Just like that.
It still catches Neuvillette off guard, some days. He’ll mention a name, or ask after someone’s family. Then his mouth will form into a little ‘o’ when he’s told that that person was someone’s great grandfather, or that the name simply didn’t ring a bell.
It shocks him, still, when he blinks, and suddenly children in front of him are fully grown. Babbling babies in their carriages. Mischievous children with glints in their eyes. running around the square. Suddenly they’re taller, wider. Their eyes older, lines on their face where there used to be none.
And all Neuvillette has to do is blink.
—
“Monsieur?” a voice calls to him.
Neuvillette looks up from the pieces of parchment neatly spread out all over his desk, and sees someone staring at him from the doorway. For a moment, he sees a boy with unkempt black hair. His eyes are empty, like dust that settles over wooden floors of abandoned houses. Red splatted all over his face, just on the cusp of adolescence.
Then, Neuvillette blinks again. It’s not a boy in front of him. It’s the same face though, just older. No blood on his skin. Only a smile.
“Are you okay, Monsieur?” Wriothesley asks.
“I…” Neuvillette trails off.
He glances back to the papers on his desk. The hands on the surface of them. Human-shaped hands. How long did he write for? He’s never sure. The minutes tick into motions on a calendar only humans bother to flip through.
Then, Neuvillette looks back up at the other man again. “I’m quite alright.”
“Sure you are,” Wriothsley laughs.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds of his boots ring in Neuvillette’s ears.
“Administrator Wriothsley,” says Neuvillette. He gazes at the Duke making his way towards him. His lips curve into a small frown. “I don’t recall any scheduled meetings concerning the Fortress of Meropide. Did something happen?”
But Neuvillette knows. What Wriothesley wants. What he’s here for.
“Let’s just say, Chief Justice, I’m here for more…”
Wriothsley leans over the desk and whispers. His breath is hot against the shell of his ear. Neuvillette can’t help but feel a small shiver run down his spine.
“...personal matters.”
Neuvillette exhales. He looks ahead, at the grand chandelier on the ceiling, at the intricately carved wood of the furniture. Anything but him.
He glances at the clock. There’s roughly thirty seven minutes and forty two seconds remaining before his next task. It’s not much. A bare trace of time for a person. But especially for a long-life species like a dragon.
“I have a meeting at 2,” says Neuvillette carefully.
It makes Wriothsley laugh. As if the passage of time does not matter. Even if it should.
“We’ll be done in a blink of an eye, Monsieur,” he replies.
Neuvillette blinks once, twice. And then Wriothsley’s lips are on his.
—
Somehow, in the span of half an hour, the Duke of Meropide’s clothes are scattered all over the carpet. The Chief Justice of Fontaine bends him over his desk. It’s obscene and unbecoming of them both.
The man under him soft moans and shaky whimpers against the rhythmic thudding sound of bodies sliding against mahogany. Against each other.
Wriothsley’s back is all toned muscle and heavy scars. It’s years and years of hard work. Of abuse. There’s a fleeting moment where Neuvillette wants to lean forward and press himself against that skin. To press his lips against it.
He doesn’t.
The clock ticks. They’re done by 1:58 PM.
Wriothesley’s clothes are back on him as quickly as they came off. Neuvillette watches as the other man winks at him, makes a small salute with two fingers to his temple, and walks away like nothing happened at all.
The clock continues to tick. Neuvillette stares at its round surface. Hears the continuous sharp sounds of its gears turning in their places. He tries to think of the next things to do on his list, and not the warmth of his relaxed body. The remnants of feeling tingle down his spine.
Blink of an eye, huh? He thinks.
—
It’s an interesting friendship between the Iudex of Fontaine and the Duke of Meropide. Neuvillette hears people around them talk. It's only through centuries of living among humans that he knows it's all harmless.
Wriothesley is cunning, yes. But underneath all the ice is a man with firm principles, and a sense of justice that Neuvillette can trust.
He wonders, though, if friendship is the right word to choose. Right now, perhaps, it’s the only acceptable word.
—
For all intents and purposes, Neuvillette shouldn’t have permitted their relationship to evolve in such a way. He shouldn’t have permitted themselves to have a relationship at all. He was the Chief Justice of the Court of Fontaine. And Wriothesley was the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide. Two separate entities. Business intentions only.
After all, personal ties hinders one’s objectivity. Clouds one’s judgment.
So when it happens for the first time, Neuvillette is frozen. Pressed against the soft cushion of the court office chair, as a man with cloudy-grey eyes and a clear intention climbs on his lap. His breath is warm against Neuvillette’s face. His cheeks are pink, wanton with something Neuvillette understands but doesn’t expect to see.
Wriothesley’s lips are parted slightly, but he doesn’t speak. His fingers trail down Neuvillette’s neck. Down his arms, his torso, his hips. The Iudex can’t help but break out into tiny shivers with every touch. The only other sound Neuvillette hears, besides the sounds of skin and fabric, is the looming ticks of the grandfather clock.
It’s only when his hands stop at Neuvillette’s belt that he speaks.
“You can be rough, if you want,” Wriothesley says. Hoarsely, he gestures to the clock with his head. Neuvillette is still all too aware of the fingers that ghost against the leather of his belt, and his inner thighs. “If you really want us to be quick.”
Neuvillette tenses at that.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
That earns a laugh. Then, a small shrug.
“But you already have.”
And it’s true. It stings a little, but it’s true. Neuvillette is still haunted by it. The day of Fontaine’s fastest trial. A bloodstained young boy with a look far too grown up on his face. A profession and a confession that made Neuvillette fall into a deep silence.
“I’m guilty,” proclaimed that boy, in all his earnestness. “I killed them.”
Neuvillette knows Wriothesley was guilty. A crime is a crime, no matter how justified. Yet… and yet, it still killed him to announce his judgment. For the price of taking several lives, the boy is to serve his sentence far away, in the depths of the sea.
Guilty.
The word hung over his head, over his shoulders. Guilty. The dark rain cloud that endlessly poured and chilled Neuvillette’s dragon blood. Guilty. The heavy cloak that wrapped around him, and threatened to pull him under.
He never let anyone get close because of guilt.
“Come now, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Many have said, time and time again. In vain effort to get closer to him. “Not everyone will stand trial, nor will you always have to remain in the judge’s seat.”
But Neuvillette knows the truth. Given enough time, every river will overflow and flood. Given enough time, every sin will wash away, along with their lives. Doom and judgment is to fall upon all in Fontaine.
Every last Fontainian is guilty.
It is, perhaps, because of this reason that Neuvillette permits Wriothesley to close in the space between them. Allows his hands to take off all of the Duke’s clothes. Wrestles every gasp, every moan, every sob out of the other man. Holds the trembling man bouncing on his lap, and occasionally brushes sweaty black strands of hair from his debauched face.
He’s already judged Wriothesley for his guilt once.
And as guilty as Neuvillette feels, he knows as well as Wriothesley does that when the day comes, he’ll be sure to deliver the same sound judgment again.
—
The first time after, his guilt seeps into the alabaster walls and the thick emerald green carpet of his office. Neuvillette’s eyes flicker from the man on top of him to the doors down the hall. He hears the sounds of little Melusine feet walking around, of guards marching past, of people ignorant to the
He watches as Wriothesley lifts his hips up, pulls Neuvillette out from inside of him, and goes to pick up his clothes strewn over the floor. How nonchalant the Duke of Meropide dresses himself after such an act. It’s so clinical, it baffles the Iudex.
Slacks on his body. Neuvillette opens his eyes. His gray shirt crumpled, but buttoned up. Neuvillette closes them again.
“Can you pass me my vest, please?” He hears Wriothsley say.
Neuvillette can’t quite look the Duke in the eye as he passes the grey vest, along with articles of clothing, back to him. Instead, he looks at their wrists. Neuvillette’s wrists are long and slender. Wriothsley’s, covered in musty leather.
“I need to… finish this next task. Please take all the time you need.”
“Alright.” is what Neuvillette hears as he turns to provide Wriothsley some privacy to get changed.
He tries to busy himself again when he hears it. That, “Listen-”
Neuvillette stops what he does. He always pauses what he does for Wriothesley. Perhaps he can convince himself that he does the same for everyone. He turns to see Wriothsley standing there, pants and button down back on. His red tie loops around the leather on his wrists.
Wriothsley smiles at him, but it’s a smile that hides behind copper walls hidden miles below a raging sea. Some days, Neuvillette thinks maybe he can reach past it, but today is not that day.
“This… little meeting,” says Wriothesley. The words dance on his tongue. How fitting. Just how they both dance around each other. “Would you… ah. How do I put this? Would you prefer if I went elsewhere to fulfill such an agenda?”
Neuvillette says nothing. He faces away from Wriothsley momentarily, trying to put sense into his thoughts. His skin still buzzes from what they’ve done
He imagines what it would be like. Or tries to, at least. If Wriothsley were to open himself up to another man. It would be better for their careers. It would restore order in their lives, and isn’t that what the Chief Justice does? He will call for order.
But Archons, Neuvillette can’t imagine it. The thought of Wriothsley bent over someone else’s desk. The look of that flushed face. The little “ah- ahn!”s next to his ears. Neuvillette is not a selfish person being, but he wants this.
“I… I’d prefer if you keep such matters only with me.” He utters. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”
He walks away then. It’s easier to do that than to see Wriothsley’s face. Or worse, understand exactly what he just chose. He catches a glimpse of it, though. Those icy grey eyes, wide from surprise.
Guilt cloaks over him. It’s heavy, like the awful damp smell of old mold and copper tang. More than anyone, Neuvillette knows they shouldn’t do this. Their intimacy is not illegal by any means, but there’s a natural order to things. Some day soon, a sentence will come for him. It’s the nature of justice to do so.
But more than anyone, Neuvillette wants. For the first time ever, he simply wants. And wants, and wants again.
—
After that, their relationship changes.
It starts with his office, yes. But Wriothsley finds him in new places. And sometimes, he finds Wriothsley too. Sometimes, they talk as they always do, but then a hand traces up his arm and he receives a look, and Neuvillette knows what’s wanted in the moment.
Intimacy is messy. More often than not, it’s a hassle to clean up. Wriothsley tells him that it’s okay and that there’s no need for the Chief Justice to wipe him down or help him get dressed again.
But Neuvillette does. He always does, before he leaves.
—
Eventually, they end up in one of their beds. Sometimes, in the stillness of the evening, Neuvillette watches as his partn- his friend sleeps. The soft, gentle snores thrum in melodic fashion, in tandem with the rise and fall of the other man’s bare chest.
He takes in the image of Wriothesley like this, eyes closed and face still. If Neuvillette were human, perhaps he would have allowed himself to press his lips against the spot between the man’s eyebrows.
It’s a stark contrast from their coupling. That peaceful face. The other man would gaze upon him so intensely, teeth clenched and face flushed red. He’d say such indecent things, gripping Neuvillette so tight, as if the Chief Justice could get closer than inside of him.
Neuvillette can’t remember if Wriothesley ever looked at ease, even when he was a child. Come to think of it, it felt like Neuvillette just blinked once, twice, and Wriothesley was no longer a child.
How many more times did he need to pause, to blink, to breathe, even, before Wriothesley was an old man? Before he was someone’s great-grandfather? Or just a carved out name on a bronze wall, or letters typed down in a history book?
And how many days would that take? Would Neuvillette miss him then, as he did now?
Neuvillette doesn’t know what is worse: the question or the answer. Instead, he settles on pressing against the dip of the sheets where Wriothesley slumbered. He feels the lingering warmth of the other man through the white linen.
He doesn’t count the days. How could he?
But he does count the scars painted on bare skin. It’s easier.
—
Gradually, they learn about each other in tandem.
Neuvillette learns what makes the Duke flush a deep red, what makes him sigh, what causes him to gasp in tiny breaths as he quivers under his touch. His hands roam the broad body beneath his, tracing every bump, every scarred surface.
“M-Monsieur, you- I-I ngh!”
He likes it. He likes this man falling apart, so gently, so wholly, underneath him.
He also likes it when Wriothesley rides him. It’s slow and deep, and he presses his face against his neck. His warm breath against pale skin. Those deft fingers running against his long hair, twirling with the curls just at the ends.
He likes that tired, heavy sigh after every encounter. That little laugh Wriothesley makes as he pulls out and settles beside him. Those heavy-lidded grey eyes on his.
He likes it a lot.
He likes it so much, he wonders how long it will last.
—
Apparently, it’s a surprise to the Duke that he’s Neuvillette’s first. And it’s also a surprise to Neuvillette to learn that their first time was just “okay”.
It’s not until Wriothsley says it that it occurs to Neuvillette that sex is a skill humans learn as much as it is a mood and a want. For all the years he’s been alive, Neuvillette never really expressed much interest in learning about such intimacy so personally. He’s a dragon, after all, not a human.
But then he blinks and suddenly he’s in bed with a human. A wonderful man. A kind, cunning, thoughtful, and complex man, but a human all the same.
“I swear, Monsieur, the great and popular Chief Justice of Fontaine, you’d think you’d at least have a little experience!” Wriothesley chortles. “Are you sure there wasn’t some lady or gentleman you wanted to practice with back then, even a little?”
Rather annoyed, Neuvillette reaches down towards Wriothsley’s behind. He grabs a piece of flesh there and squeezes, earning a soft “hey!” and a light slap on the wrist.
No. There was no one else.
And there would never be anyone else.
—
Sometimes, Neuvillette forgets. He doesn’t truly forget, but things slip his mind. Little things. Like lunch breaks and upcoming long weekends.
He’ll look up from his desk, and the calendar says it’s August but it was still November two years ago, wasn’t it?
Sometimes, Neuvillette remembers. He remembers the time, the years long past. He’ll glance at his hands, his painfully human shaped hands, and remember just how much he is not.
He’ll look up from his hands, and back at the calendar. It reads September now. Bright red print letters. Dates encircled, so important yet he can’t remember what for.
In two months, it’ll be another birthday of Wriothesley’s.
And in three, it’ll be another year done.
And in how many months… How long would it be before Neuvillette forgets his voice? His face? His name?
Sometimes, Neuvillette wishes he could forget.
—
They don’t kiss.
It’s words unspoken, but a message clear. They could do everything and anything to each other, behind closed doors, pressed against walls, bent over desks.
They could be all kinds of unholy. All kinds of chaos and ruin that they kept bottled up under all that order. That was still acceptable. But no kissing.
It makes sense. Keeps everything casual, detached. They are two individuals who shoulder heavy responsibilities. They can talk. They can work together. They can blow off steam. They can even be friends, all things considered.
But kiss? No. Kisses bear the weight of something else entirely.
Neuvillette wants to, though. Sometimes. Many times. Too much. He’d ghost his mouth across the skin of Wriothesley’s neck, his chest, the scarred skin of his inner thighs. He’d wonder if the other man’s mouth would be as warm as the rest of him.
Neuvillette doesn’t, though. Doesn’t do it, doesn’t let it happen. It’s hard to, with the lingering thought of ‘how long will this last?’
—
Once again, time does what it does and passes as soon as Neuvillette blinks. It’s the Fontinalia Festival, and the city is adorned in colorful streamers. Children run around with their parents or their friends, wearing special costumes.
“Trial or treat!” They shriek in glee as their little shoes tak-tak-tak down the stone roads. Their small buckets full of candy.
“I quite liked the tradition of asking for pure water,” Neuvillette tells Furina truthfully as they walk down the road.
“That’s because you’re odd,” sniffs Furina. “Most people prefer candy.”
“You would be right about that, Lady Furina.”
He laughs with her.
As they walk, he nods respectfully at the people who stop to greet them. As they continue to pass many faces, Neuvillette finds himself searching for a specific one. It’s silly to do so, but he does anyway.
“I must admit, this is quite a surprise!” Neuvillette hears a voice behind him. “Seeing two of Fontaine’s greatest here.”
It’s the Duke. Neuvillette doesn’t need to turn around to know.
As always, Wriothesley stands tall. In his grasp is a bouquet of pink flowers. Camellias, Neuvillette thinks. He also thinks Wriothesley looks handsome, even if the blossoms he holds look slightly out of place.
“Wriothesley,” he says. “How good to see you.”
“Likewise,” replies the Duke. He flashes a shrewd smile, and Neuvillette’s chest tightens. “Greetings, Lady Furina. What an honor it is to have you here.”
“Thank you, Wriothesley.” She frowns at him. Come to think of it, she’s frowning at Neuvillette too. “I’ll be making my way to the carnival games now. I happen to have the most dull time when you two are around.”
Unsurprisingly, Wriothesley chortles as she walks off, sapphire blue skirts swishing behind her. It’s always like the Duke to act so amused at every little thing. To act as if the world never did anything to hurt him, even if it did.
“Shall we?” says Wriothesley. He gestures to one of the quieter cobblestone roads away from the festivities. “It’s been a while since we got to see each other.”
It’s a lie. Wriothesley was in his bed approximately three weeks ago. It’s not that long of a time.
Then again, Neuvillette wouldn’t know what a long time is, what it would look like. He’s not a human.
“Alright,” he agrees.
—
Their stroll is as pleasant as it gets. They talk about many things. All topics under the sun always become available and easy when Wriothsley is around. It’s nice to be treated as if Neuvillette is just as human as the rest of them.
Neuvillette, however, does not miss the way people shuffle their feet and avert their gazes away from them as they walk. He watches as fear flickers onto their many faces.
It saddens him. For people to only ever see a criminal instead of a man.
“Here,” says Wriothesley suddenly, when they hit the steps of the Court. “It was a gift from one of the foreigner stalls. For you.”
Neuvillette sees the same pink flowers held in front of him. His eyebrows raise at the sight of them. He sees Wriothsley’s hand at the base of the bouquet, crinkling the brown wrapping paper in his grip.
The Duke offers him a smile. A rare one. A real one. It’s so tender it threatens to break him.
He imagines flowers on Wriothesley’s wedding day. Bright pink blossoms stark against the white of his future spouse's wedding attire.
He closes his eyes. Opens them. Repeats this once. Twice. Those same green stems sitting in a clear vase beside a hospital table. Those same pink petals on top of old earth, in front of a grime-coated gravestone.
“You should place those flowers in a nice vase on your desk,” Neuvillette decides. He smiles from centuries of practice, not because he means it. “They’d look beautiful there.”
“I see.”
Wriothesley’s smiling again. It’s his usual grin- guarded by thick walls everyone could feel but not see. Neuvillette returns one, just as polite. Just as shallow.
—
A few days later, Neuvillette descends into the depths of Meropide. As soon as the doors close, he’s greeted with a hungry mouth against his. He’s slammed against the wall, and for every second Neuvillette’s lungs burn, he counts for atonement.
Neuvillette takes Wriothesley on the floor this time. It’s terrifyingly satisfying to see this man naked against his long blue coat, body wet and open, just for him. He blazes hot around Neuvillette with every thrust.
He sees Wriothesley’s fingers claw against the flat surface of the ground. The harsh bangs of his palms against metal as he cries, please, please, oh Archons, Neuvillette, please, yes, there-
As Neuvillette rips moan after moan out of him, his eyes flicker back to the camellias that sit in a glass cup on Wriothesley’s desk. He notices how one of them remains out of its container. Its long petals all plucked and scattered on the dark wood of the tabletop.
One petal remains on its sepal. A burst of pale pink that holds strong, even when the rest of its companions lie withered around it. Neuvillette is haunted by the sight of it.
—
“One of the flowers has been destroyed,” comments Neuvillette, after they finish.
A gleam of… something flashes over Wriothesley’s face when he says it. He also winces slightly as picks up another piece of clothing off the ground. Neuvillette is only somewhat sure that his expression is a result of their intimacy.
“Does it matter?” Wriothesley replies. “It was going to die regardless.”
A pause. A breath. They blink in tandem.
The last petal still hangs on.
—
Time passes, as it always does. Red ink scribbles on calendar dates. People live. People celebrate. People die.
Everything is a painful reminder that Neuvillette is not human.
“Papa! Mama!” He hears a little kid cry out during his walk, laughing as he kicks his feet. “When I grow up, I’m going to be thiiiis big!”
The child puffs up his chest and spreads his arms wide, wide, wide. In amusement, his parents smile and let him grab their hands and swing from their arms between them.
“My little one. Oh my love,” Neuvillette catches the mother, joyful yet weary, say under her breath. “Don’t grow up too fast.”
It doesn’t break him to hear that. Neuvillette lived at least a hundred human lifetimes. There are so many painful things he’s heard, it does not break him.
But the next time he catches a sleepy smile from Wriothesley on the pillow beside him, the sky outside rumbles.
Oh my love. He thinks, before he can stop himself. Don’t grow up too fast.
—
How tragic it is. How funny. That the Hydro Dragon is falling in love with a human.
Neuvillette knows that one day, he’ll blink and Wriothesley will be gone. And he’ll sit on the same seat in front of the same desk at the Palais Mermonia, writing through notes and reading through texts and living life as if he were never here in the first place.
I’m going to miss you for the rest of my life. The same way I know you will love me for the rest of yours.
Despair grows in his heart. It pierces him over and over and over again. He knows that this is the price for a Hydro Dragon loving a human.
It takes almost three weeks for the rains to stop.
—
Rain or shine, the days pass. It’s the nature of time. Of being alive.
It’s Wriothesley’s birthday. There is no fanfare, no citywide event for it. Even if the Duke of Meropide is one to be praised by the public eye, he calls no fanfare towards himself.
Neuvillette knows because when he does come out of the monotony of signing papers, he sees the date on the calendar on his desk. It’s funny how Neuvillette can still spot the numbers, especially as the Melusines sometimes take joy in placing sparkly plastic stickers over the dates.
It comes as a surprise, then, when a garde knocks on Neuvillette’s office door. A sweet and savory aroma hits him as the garde places a package on the Chief Justice’s hands. A present for him.
There’s a note. It reads:
A re-birthday celebration shared.
And-
Light on the sauce, as much as that annoys me. I know you don’t like saucy food.
Neuvillette reads the note. Over and over and over again. He reads it until the ink blends together and bleeds into the skin of his palms.
He contemplates paying Wriothesley a visit down at the Fortress. It’s his birthday after all.
But if Neuvillette knows if he does, he can’t help but number the birthdays left. It’s inevitable for life to take its course, but all Neuvillette would do is blink and-
Ah. It would be best not to go.
—
The clock ticks past. The sounds drill into his heartbeat.
Neuvillette stamps paper after paper, approves of agenda after agenda. The same thing he’s been doing for several lifetimes.
He does send a thank you note to Wriothesley. Also a present, as a courtesy. In the note, Neuvillette states the ribs were delicious. He leaves out the fact he gives the rest of them to the staff because at least someone would be happy with Wriothesley’s gift.
Neuvillette considers flowers, but the thoughts of petals on gravestones stop him.
—
For almost ten weeks, Wriothesley does not seek him out.
It makes sense for the Duke not to. The man is as busy as a person gets, and the Iudex of Fontaine has his fair share of troubles to work through.
Neuvillette works. He stamps seals of approval on orders and bills. He oversees trials. Casts judgment on people as he always has.
And misses him. Always misses him.
—
The next time Neuvillette hears from Meropide, he’s invited to ordain a wedding. It’s the first of its kind in such a location. He looks through his records to be sure about it.
Weddings, Neuvillette can do. While not in his usual list of tasks to do, there are times when the Chief Justice is asked to officiate unions. The role is easy enough to play for him. All he needs to do is read text aloud and smile.
Over the years, he grows to find them interesting. People laughing and crying, exchanging words that turn into promises. Sometimes they’re kept, other times not.
It’s all very human.
The Traveller and her friend are there too. They tell him something about a Beret Society, and a rock that controls people. It’s a blur of words strung together in barely held coherence but that is fine, Neuvillette hears much worse when he oversees trials.
Wriothesley stands among the small group in attendance as he reads the script. The words ring loud in the space within the Fortress. They ring bitter as they bounce of copper and steel walls. Neuvillette can’t read the emotions behind that blank stare.
“…for better or for worse…”
Wriothesley looks at him. He blinks.
“… for richer or for poorer…”
Neuvillette stares back at him.
“…in sickness and in health…”
Neuvillette blinks back. His chest squeezes.
“…until death do you part?”
“I do!” cry out the couple in joy.
They kiss. There are no wedding bells that chime in a fortress built from metal this far below the sea. But there are claps. Loud cheers and hoots. A distant smile from a cold prison Administrator. A soft sigh from the Chief Justice, if one listens hard enough.
Alas Neuvillette did not do his job well today. He read through the script, yes, but he did not smile.
—
Wriothesley walks him to the elevator to take him back to where the sun actually shines. Their boots clang-clang-clang down the metal pathways, the only noise aside from the occasional hiss of steam from somewhere in the distance.
“Good wedding, huh?” says the Duke, just before he stops in front of the clockwork door.
The Iudex looks ahead and makes a small noise in agreement. Objectively, it really was a good wedding.
“In spite of everything,” says Neuvillette, after a pause. “They look very happy.”
“As happy as they can get down here.”
Machines whir and hiss. Neuvillette closes his eyes and sighs.
“You should do the same, Wriothesley.” He finds himself saying. “Find a nice person. Be as happy as you can get.”
Neuvillette opens his eyes. Ocean blue meets icy gray. Even with that polite stare, Neuvillette knows that Wriothesley isn’t happy.
Seconds tick past. The air grows thick between them.
“Goodbye, Monsieur,” says Wriothesley, finally.
Frost almost coats each word. Neuvillette watches as the Duke turns and walks away.
—
Neuvillette ascends to the surface.
The downpour is so heavy he can’t see.
—
Pages of calendars flutter by. Lines are drawn through to do lists and numbers and dates.
Fontainians keep disappearing.
Neuvillette closes his eyes as he inhales. He swears his breath for the past few minutes condenses far too quickly. Droplets run down mirrors and fog up window panes from inside his office.
Doom and judgment is to fall upon Fontaine. Every one of them is guilty.
Every.
Last.
One.
The Chief Justice opens his eyes. At his office, he sits and stares at his hands. Hands, not claws. Built to condemn an entire land of people to die. Built to judge.
He exhales. He wishes to beg for forgiveness.
Isn’t that sad? A Hydro Dragon that weeps every so often and begs for forgiveness. The poor thing doesn’t even know who he’s asking forgiveness from.
—
Intuition tells Neuvillette that the end of Fontaine draws closer.
So, he goes. Down to the depths. Down to Meropide.
Down to end things with Wriothesley. And perhaps give the man a chance at happiness, before he goes.
—
The doors open to Wriothesley’s chambers, as if the Duke already has been expecting the Chief Justice to pay him a visit. Neuvillette forces himself to look away when he’s greeted by a shirtless Wriothesley. Just came back from sparring at the ring, he claims.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Monsieur,” teases Wriothesley. Neuvillette feels his cheeks heat up at his words. “Did you come to help me warm my bed tonight?”
Neuvillette shakes his head slowly. His eyes meet the ceiling and he thinks of impending doom. Of great waves coming to drown out thousands of voices in an instant. “Listen, Wriothesley, we can’t-”
“Why? Because you’re a dragon?”
Eyes widening, Neuvillette stares. Inhales, exhales.
Did Wriothesley always know? He searches that face, for a sign of something, anything. Neuvillette looks and isn’t even sure what he’s looking for anymore. Maybe, just maybe, he wants to commit everything to memory, for one last time.
“Or is it because I’m a human?” continues Wriothesley as he walks forward. Neuvillette moves back, until his calves hit something solid. The creaky metal of Wriothesley’s humble bed frame. “I know it's not the sex because you wouldn’t have let me come back a second time. Pray tell, Hydro Dragon, what changed your mind?”
The Hydro Dragon closes his human eyes. He wants to weep. He sees Wriothesley’s gravestone one, twice, a thousand times. He feels the burden of guilt on his chest at the thought of this wonderful man not being able to live a meaningful life simply because a long-life species is in love with him.
“I…” Neuvillette exhales. He threatens to fall apart. “I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
“Oh. So you regret this?” Wriothesley’s words grow increasingly sharp. Icy. The words begin to hit like punches from metal gauntlets. He always has his way with words, the cunning man that he is. “Do you regret me?”
Regret. One word. Two syllables.
It echoes in Neuvillette’s mind a thousand times. It finds its way into every memory. Every scar Neuvillette has counted on his skin. Every petal on the flowers on wedding days, beside hospital beds, on gravestones. People die, but Neuvillette does not want this one to.
“I don’t, but…” Neuvillette looks up. He takes a pause. “You’re angry.”
And this time Wriothesley does not hide it. Rage etches into every line and scar in his face. It settles into the grey of his eyes. The Duke of Meropide earned his position from righteous anger. But right now, Neuvillette does not understand why.
“Because, you dick,” snaps Wriothesley. “It’s so frustrating every time you look at me like that!”
In shock, Neuvillette only looks up at the man who suddenly pins him down to his bed. Neuvillette is no stranger to Wriothesley’s cold wrath, but not like this. Not like this.
“Like what?” Neuvillette asks.
“Like I’m already dead.”
Neuvillette could only stare. It’s the first time they ever speak about it. Grief is the truth, in all its ugly glory.
He grabs Neuvillette’s hand and presses it to his chest. It’s somehow more intimate than any of the sexual encounters they’ve ever had. Neuvillette’s gaze moves from the deep scar that ran across tan skin to the despair that brimmed to the surface of ice gray.
Wriothesley's heart beats steady. Unlike the Cryo flakes that burn over his gauntlets, he’s warm.
“I’m still…here, Neuvillette,” The mighty Duke of Meropide’s voice goes from a snarl to a shaky whisper. Heavy but fragile, like glass just about to hit concrete. “And I know I’ll die one day, but not now. So before I go, shit, can you please….”
He does not miss the way Wriothesley’s whole body shakes in his touch. He takes it all in: the clench of the other man’s jaw, the shininess of his eyes as they fill with tears. Of rage? Of grief? Of the terrible, terrible horrors of their truest feelings coming into the forefront?
He does not miss the way Wriothesley leans forward to rest his forehead on his bare chest. He does not miss what he says.
“Please, Neuvillette… just… be here. With me.”
It strikes Neuvillette, then, just how severe this sentence is. He is the Hydro Dragon. He can control the very depths of the Primordial Sea. But he cannot just like how the law cannot control evil, he is helpless against the angry tears that stream down Wriothesley’s face.
Neuvillette reaches out a hand against dark locks. In silence, he strokes his hair.
“...All people of Fontaine are born with sin that cannot be absolved,” recites Neuvillette, ever so quietly. “One day, the waters of Fontaine will rise and the sinful people will be dissolved into the waters…”
Slowly, he retracts his hand. Like the waves recede from the shore.
“...and only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on her throne,” finishes Wriothesley. The man lifts his head up. Tears on his face gone. His face somber. “Only then will the sins of the people be washed away.”
Neuvillette knows, then, that Wriothesley understands. That he cannot be there. Cannot be with him.
—
The end comes.
All of Fontaine is swept away by the Primordial sea. Furina weeps on her throne.
In a space far away from both the living and the dead, Neuvillette stares at a god. She is beautiful, but she is not warm or kind. She is the God of Justice herself, without an ounce of empathy. Or humanity, in the truest sense of the word.
“Existence was Egeria’s justice,” she says. “And to me, existence is a continuation of that justice.”
Neuvillette listens. To the grandest finale of all- the end of the Archon of Justice. She laughs at his despair, the same way she laughs at everyone’s deception, at poor Furina’s centuries of misery, at the sword that dangles above to end her very “existence”.
He thinks of Wriothesley.
“O Hydro Dragon,” says Focalor, her smile serene. “All things come to an end. You get one life, too. It may not end as quickly as a human’s does, but you get the same chance. Why choose a life of regret?”
His chest aches. Neuvillette thinks of pink flowers, of thick scars, and of love.
“Everyone has a right to live,” she adds. “So what will you choose, Hydro Dragon Sovereign?”
—
The Oratrice kills her. As newfound power thrums through his veins, Neuvillette rises above a flooded land.
“People of Fontaine,” he chooses. “Your sins are forgiven.”
—
People are saved. He sees a gigantic clockwork ship that flies around grabs people from the water and pulls them to dry land.
He hears it’s of Wriothesley’s doing.
—
Days turn into weeks. The paperwork never seems to end.
He’s the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. He’s already had five hundred years of practice to do all this. What’s a few more?
—
A few weeks turn into a month. And then two.
By then, the people of Fontaine return to some sort of normal. There are still houses to rebuild, complaints to go through, and papers to file, but people remember to live as they always do, once more. And flowers again, start to grow by the hillsides.
He sees the soft pinks of the rainbow roses budding against the grass and thinks of Wriothesley. Truthfully, though, he never really stops thinking of him.
—
A few weeks after that, Neuvillette descends into the depths of Meropide. In his arms are a bouquet of rainbow roses. He thinks of the hundreds of years he’s seen humans exchanging flowers. It was his mistake to assume Wriothesley did not mean the same, all those months ago.
Once again, the Duke of Meropide is present at his office, ready to see him.
“Did I miss an occasion?” jokes Wriothesley, as if Neuvillette did not hurt him all those months ago.
In response, Neuvillette simply holds out the bouquet. He is the Hydro Dragon, imbued with the powers only a Sovereign can ever own. But at this moment, words fail him. He does not know where to begin, what to say. He is merely at the mercy of a man who he, in spite of everything, loves.
He’s not Focalor. He cannot apologize enough.
He hears a tired sigh. Neuvillette looks down at his human hands as the bouquet is taken from him and placed down on Wriothesley’s desk.
Then, there are warm hands on the sides of his face. Lips upon his own. Gentle thumbs that wipe away the tears that burn as they fall down his own cheeks.
“O Hydro Dragon. My Hydro Dragon,” says Wriothesley. His grey eyes are warmer than he’s ever seen them. “Don’t cry. I’ve already forgiven you.”
—
That night, Neuvillette understands why humans call it “making love”. Their limbs tangle, and everything burns, but it’s soft and vulnerable. As Wriothesley shudders and moans, he kisses all the scars he can count.
He kisses Wriothesley, and lets the man kiss him in return.
So what will you choose, Hydro Dragon Sovereign?
He loves him.
He loves him.
He loves him.
—
When they finish, they talk. It's bits and pieces of things only they understand. Somewhere in between, Wriothesley eventually falls asleep. Neuvillette watches the peaceful rise and fall of his chest as he does. Out of habit, he counts every scar he can see.
Neuvillette knows, deep down, that he will miss Wriothesley for the rest of his life.
But not right now. Right now, he chooses to love him.
And to love him for the rest of his life.