Work Text:
The headline alone makes Wriothesley spill his tea all over his desk. He ignores the capsized teacup in favor of rereading the headline, then re-rereading it. It doesn’t change.
The Iudex’s Union: Chief Justice Neuvillette has a lover!
What the hell. He would have dismissed it as pointless speculation had it come from anywhere else. But this is the Steambird, and they don’t fuck around. He opens the tea-sogged paper with some difficulty.
A full-page spread of Neuvillette greets him. Interestingly enough, instead of his typical head-on shot cutting an imposing figure, it’s a side profile of Neuvillette leaning on a railing, looking out over the sea. He’s strikingly handsome like that, though admittedly, Wriothesley would find him strikingly handsome regardless.
On the page across from Neuvillette is the beginning of the article. It’s long, because of course it is. Neuvillette rarely lets anyone interview him, so stories about him are few and far between. The people get desperate. Wriothesley included.
To Wriothesley’s dismay, the article is snappy and very engaging. It’s one of Charlotte’s. He’s always liked her. Wriothesley had first met her when she followed an ex-Institute researcher’s case all the way to Meropide. She has the least self-preservation of almost anyone he knows. Great reporter, though.
But then Wriothesley reaches the paragraph where-
“My lover is a highly unusual person,” the Iudex said, with a small, private smile. “Though, seeing as how I am likewise unusual, I don’t mind.” Chief Justice Neuvillette also described his lover as “witty, observant, and extremely loyal.” He even admitted he was drawn to them from the moment he first met them! The admiration with which he spoke easily convinced-
Wriothesley slams the paper down onto his desk. His head drops into his hands. He groans.
“Your Grace,” Sigewinne calls from the bottom of the stairs, “are you feeling alright? I heard something just now.”
He groans into his hands. “I’m just fine, Sigewinne.”
“Really?” She hops up the remaining stairs, looking at him skeptically. She touches her hand to his forehead gently. Wriothesley had accidentally flinched when she did so once, early on, and Sigewinne hasn’t touched him without warning since. “You seem to have a headache, Your Grace. Have you been reading without your glasses again?”
“Yeah.”
“Please use your glasses,” Sigewinne says, her eyes intentionally wide. “I got you a prescription for a reason.”
“Dammit,” Wriothesley mumbles, but retrieves his glasses from the drawer on his left anyway. He should never have taught her about those stupid pleading eyes. They work every time.
Sigewinne gives him a thumbs up and skips out.
The moment she leaves, Wriothesley sighs, deflating. He’s pretty sure his eyesight isn’t the problem today.
The corner of the article peeks at him, bearing the words has a lover . Wriothesley stares at it in melancholy for a moment. Then, he makes the executive decision to take off his glasses. Fuck seeing. He doesn’t need to see today.
He picks up the paper, crumples it into a ball, throws it down the stairs, but no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t seem to throw it away.
***
The article is all anyone will talk about. Wriothesley goes to the cafeteria and catches no less than three groups of inmates discussing it. He manages to slog through the veritable ocean of Neuvillette fans-slash-downfall-plotters (he can never quite tell in the Fortress), and finds Wolsey with a sigh of relief.
“Whatever’s good,” he requests, just like usual, and hands over the coupons.
Wolsey nods. “Coming right up.” He vanishes momentarily, evidently chatting with his chefs, before returning to the counter with a bowl of hearty-looking chicken soup with rice. “This alright?”
Wriothesley nods, taking the bowl gratefully. He’s just about ready to head back to his office and hole up in there with a bunch of paperwork and a dozen cups of tea until he passes out, when Wolsey hums.
“Seen the Steambird this morning?”
Wriothesley, in his capacity as literally everyone’s superior, could very easily just ignore him. But he likes Wolsey. Sue him. So, with great effort, he stays in place, and pastes on a semblance of a smile. “Yeah. Pretty weird, huh? I didn’t know the Chief Justice did interviews.”
“C’mon, you know that’s not what I’m asking.” Wolsey’s eyes become smug, like he’s in on some secret Wriothesley supposedly is too. “Know anything about this mysterious lover of his?”
Oh. Yeah, that would explain it.
“No,” Wriothesley admits, trying his best for an airheaded shrug and failing abysmally.
Wolsey laughs. “Right,” he drawls. “Well, I won’t hold you up any longer.”
But Wriothesley frowns, holding his ground. “I really don’t know,” he says. “Who it is.”
“Sure.” Wolsey gives him an exaggerated wave. “Just like how I don’t know what’s in the lasagna.”
With that, he disappears from the window, checking on something in the kitchen. Wriothesley stands there, holding his bowl of soup, for about ten seconds, before he hears yet another inmate at a cafeteria table mention the name ‘Neuvillette’ and snaps out of it.
The pile of official documents on his desk is growing alarmingly tall. Wriothesley attempts to work on them for a while, after which point he realizes he has not been focusing on the documents at all but rather staring down the stairs where he knows the crumpled Steambird issue sits on the floor in a disgraceful little ball.
He groans, leaning back in his chair, and shoves aside the documents. There’s nothing he can do now, anyway. Instead, he finds a blank piece of lined paper and begins writing down names. Names of everyone Neuvillette interacts with. Y’know. Just because he doesn’t want to be the last to know, or anything. Definitely not because of some jealousy-fueled, self-deprecating competitive streak. Who would think that?
The soup grows cold. Wriothesley doesn’t emerge from his room for the rest of the day.
***
“Your Grace?”
Wriothesley jolts awake from the micro-sleep he didn’t know he was having until just now and blinks himself out of his caffeine-induced stupor. “Yes?”
Apparently, Sigewinne takes that as permission to enter, because his office door opens just enough for her to slip in, and soon her footsteps pitter-patter up the stairs. Wriothesley feels himself brightening at the idea of her presence, of possibly stealing a little of her positive energy to stave off the odd slump he’s entered.
But instead of her usual cheerful, upbeat smile, Sigewinne wears a disappointed-looking frown. She plunks a tray down on the table. “You haven’t eaten,” she accuses.
Wriothesley hesitates. “I got lunch.”
“But did you eat it.”
He gets the feeling Sigewinne already knows the answer, so he doesn’t respond.
She heaves a sigh, sitting down across from him. “Your Grace, please take care of yourself.”
Wriothesley notices, only then, that the tray she brought is laden with bread, grilled vegetables, and sausage drowning in simmered tomato. He could cry. “Sige, did you make this for me?”
Sigewinne crosses her small arms, which Wriothesley takes as confirmation.
“Thanks,” he says, and tears into the bread with gusto. As the smell hits him he realizes he’s actually famished. Maybe that’s what not eating for a day will do to a guy. The entire portion is gone in a matter of minutes.
“Did I miss dinner?” he asks, as Sigewinne places a sketchy purple drink on the table which he deftly ignores.
“Yes.” She frowns slightly. “We were meant to have dinner together tonight.”
“Don’t give me that,” Wriothesley groans, averting his eyes from her downcast expression. “Stop making those expressions. You’ll manipulate me into doing your bidding again.”
“What can I say? I was taught by the best.”
“Fine,” he sighs, exaggerating his exasperation. He’s not upset about Sigewinne’s uncanny penchant for emotional manipulation, actually. In truth, he’s almost proud. She went from knowing nothing about emotion to studying psychology remarkably quickly. “We’re having dinner together now, aren’t we?”
“Your Grace, it’s half past eleven.”
“Oh.” He glances at his wall clock. It’s broken from the humidity again, stuck at a perpetual nine-fifteen. “I didn’t notice.”
“Wriothesley,” says Sigewinne, very suddenly, “are you alright?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Are you alright?” she repeats, quieter this time. “You don’t usually forget about dinner together, and you haven’t come out of your office all day. If you’re sick you should tell me.”
Wriothesley sighs through his nose. He glances down the stairs, searching for the crumpled ball of newspaper, then resists the urge to reach for the lined paper in his left desk drawer. “I’m not sick, Sige.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
And he considers telling her.
Sigewinne is a great listener, he’s discovered. She’s excellent at hearing out his problems, and while her emotional support is sometimes lacking, she’s great at offering an analytical point of view. Over the years, Wriothesley’s told her nearly everything about himself, about his childhood and his criminal background and his journey through boxing. In return, she’s told him about her own experiences in the city, about particularly frustrating patients, about the Melusines, about Neuvillette.
She loves talking about Neuvillette. And that’s exactly why there’s one thing Wriothesley has never told her.
She knows about his meetings with Neuvillette that devolve into dinners together. She knows about their correspondence, a little too frequent to be explained by work. Everyone in the Fortress knows about those. What Sigewinne doesn’t know is that Wriothesley’s wanted to shove the Chief Justice against his desk and kiss him silly since he took this damn job.
…Yeah, on second thought, maybe keeping one teensy secret from her is alright.
“Just feeling stressed out,” he says, which isn’t exactly a lie. “I’ve had some complications recently, with my personal life.”
She nods sagely, like his bullshit excuse makes perfect sense. “I see,” she says, which is weird because Wriothesley basically has no personal life except with her and everyone knows it. She plants her hands on her hips. “Well, Your Grace, when you said everyone should get a meal a day, that means you too.”
He smiles this time, a real one. “I’ll try not to worry you anymore.”
She beams as she skips out. Wriothesley can’t help feeling like he’d do anything to keep it there, and resolves that tomorrow, he’ll do better.
He can get over this. It’s just some article. What are the chances he’ll have to think about it for much longer?
***
“Your Grace?”
Wriothesley recognizes the voice of one of his administrators, the tone she always uses when bringing a visitor. He hastily composes himself, trying to make it seem as though he had managed to sleep eight hours in four hours the previous night. “Enter.”
The door slides open. Then, so loud that it echoes through the stairwell, “Duke Wriothesley!”
Wriothesley recognizes that voice. There’s no fucking way.
But alas, waltzing up his dangerously narrow metal stairs is his (least) favorite Steambird reporter, notepad in hand and Kamera strung round her neck.
“Hi!” says Charlotte, beaming. “I was wondering if you had time for-”
“Miss Charlotte,” he interrupts, before she can get started on her incredibly fast-paced rambling. “What brings you here?”
“Oh.” Her expression instantly schools itself into a clearly faux downcast model. “Well, I may have kinda committed an itty bitty little crime. My bad! I’ll be out soon!”
“You always are,” Wriothesley mutters darkly. He doesn’t think Charlotte has ever been charged with a sentence longer than ninety days, and her minor crimes are always conveniently timed right as she’s following a big scoop. “What are you really here for?”
Charlotte has the decency to at least look bashful. “I wanted an audience with the Duke himself. Sorry, Your Grace, but a journalist’s gotta do what a journalist’s gotta do.”
“You could just file a visit request. Like a normal person.”
She just shrugs. “This is faster.”
Wriothesley would have complained about her blatant exploitation of the prison system if she weren’t so good at motivating inmates to actually go to work. As much as he hates to admit it, Charlotte’s better than a raise for their output. He sighs, motioning for her to sit down across from him. “Only because I like your articles.”
“Wow, thanks,” she gushes, her smile unshakeable. “Y’know, that means a lot. Say, since you like my articles, you’ve probably seen my latest one, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “About our dear Chief Justice?”
Wriothesley narrowly, very narrowly, resists the urge to give up and let his head hit the desk. “Yes.”
“Ooh, delightful! I’ve heard you two are close, yeah?”
“No,” Wriothesley lies through his teeth. “Neuvillette isn’t close to anyone.”
It’s almost true, actually. Aside from the Melusines, Wriothesley’s never seen Neuvillette act very friendly, let alone loving; he clearly likes his employees and Demoiselle Navia just fine, but Wriothesley gets the feeling that’s more respect than friendship. The only person Neuvillette seems to like wasting his time on is Wriothesley, and, well. They’re not quite friends, either.
Charlotte laughs. “Don’t give me that, Duke Wriothesley,” she teases, setting up her notebook like she’s the one behind the interrogation desk. “So, let’s get right to the point. Can you tell me who the Iudex’s lover is?”
It takes everything in Wriothesley not to let himself seem hurt as he admits it. “No.”
Charlotte raises an eyebrow, not looking up from her notebook. “Alright. Well, can you tell me anything about them?”
“No.”
“Anything about Neuvillette’s attitude toward them?”
“No.”
“Anything about the time they spend together?”
“No.”
“Anything about-”
Wriothesley slams his hands down on the table. “Charlotte, for fuck’s sake, I don’t know who it is!”
He regrets it near instantly. He doesn’t normally lose control of himself like that; he’s not a very angry person, generally, but for some reason, this pisses him off like nothing else. He deflates slowly. Charlotte, to her credit and his relief, doesn’t look surprised. She just waits patiently, her pen at a standstill on the page.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m not angry with you. Just a little upset about the situation.”
Charlotte looks at him, tilting her head. “About Neuvillette’s lover?”
Slowly, cautiously, he nods.
“But he told me this wasn’t a recent development. It’s been going on for several years now.”
“Has it,” Wriothesley says faintly. “I. Wow. Okay.”
“You mean to tell me that you, as the Chief Justice’s closest companion, didn’t know about his lover for several years ?”
“Woah, woah.” Wriothesley blinks. “Closest companion?”
For the first time in Wriothesley’s entire memory, Charlotte flounders. She laughs hastily. “Uh, well, y’know. It’s just a rumor, I guess. But the inmates talk about it a lot. You and the Chief Justice, I mean. They talk about how he comes down here and spends time in your office. And the Gestionnaires at the Palais talk about it, too. That you send gifts to each other. Fancy-looking stuff. But it might just be a rumor, yeah?”
Wriothesley stares at her for a second, baffled. “You think we’re close?”
“Well, yeah,” she says, like he’d asked if Meropide would be damp tomorrow. “It’s not just me, though. I actually asked about you in my interview, and he seemed very fond of you.”
“…Did he?”
Wriothesley isn’t sure whether to laugh at the absurdity of Neuvillette being fond of anyone, or preen at the idea of it being him. He settles for the compromise of sitting in stupefied silence.
For several long moments, Charlotte is uncharacteristically silent. Even her pen is silent against her paper. Then, like a ripple breaking the surface of a lake, she comes alive. She scribbles furiously, her eyes lit up with revelation. After crossing out several lines, she then turns on Wriothesley with a vengeance.
“So,” she says, stretching out the vowel sound, “if you can’t tell me about the Chief Justice’s lover, why not tell me about how you spend time with the Chief Justice?”
Wriothesley pauses. “What?”
“Let’s start simpler.” She twirls her pen like she’s got all the time in the world. “Tell me about the gifts you send the Chief Justice.”
She looks fascinated enough that Wriothesley knows she won’t be easily shaken. He sighs. He gets the feeling this one is going to take a while to explain. “I’ll have Sigewinne bring us some tea.”
***
The next day, Charlotte escapes from the Fortress (read: Wriothesley turns a blind eye when she leaves through the front entrance), and for two weeks, everything returns to normal. He files reports on their production quotas. He eats dinner with Sigewinne. He drinks approximately two dozen cups of tea a day. He stares at the names of everyone Neuvillette interacts with.
He stares at that paper for a long, long time.
***
“Say, Clorinde, you wouldn’t happen to be dating the Chief Justice?”
“Not even a little. Why?”
“And he’s not seeing Navia, either?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not one of the lower justices, or a Gestionnaire, because he’d feel bad about the power imbalance… Oh, what about one of those smarmy researcher guys?”
“…Wriothesley. Please tell me you didn’t pay my commission rate just to ask about this.”
Wriothesley wisely keeps silent.
***
Wriothesley is beginning to wonder, half-deliriously, if Neuvillette’s with Lady Furina or something equally ridiculous, when there’s a shout outside his door.
He frowns and starts down the stairs. By the time he reaches the door, the sound has grown into a cacophony. A riot? There hasn’t been a successful one in years. Not under his jurisdiction, at least. Wriothesley checks that his hands are wrapped properly so as not to injure them in a fight before throwing open his door.
“It’s so sweet,” an inmate cries, clutching a newspaper to her chest. Wriothesley catches the crumpled corner of another cover shot of Neuvillette, this time standing with his back to the kamera, underneath an umbrella.
“They’re adorable,” another agrees, beaming alongside her. “I can’t believe he said that!”
His stomach sinks. At least the wait will be over, he thinks wryly, and steels himself as he walks over.
“So?” he asks, without preamble. “Who is it?”
They both look at him, then burst into raucous giggles.
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
In response, she just raises the newspaper, and unfolds the full cover image.
Wriothesley blinks. The picture, to his simultaneous delight and dismay, remains exactly the same. Neuvillette still stands beneath the umbrella. But it’s being held by someone else, someone with familiar unruly black hair and a billowing red coat.
His mouth goes dry. He scans the article in a frenzy, finding quotes from them both. His own words, used against him. His playful exasperation over Neuvillette’s taste in water. Neuvillette’s endeavor to improve his reputation. And perhaps worst of all, the article’s conclusion: In Chief Justice Neuvillette’s own words, “The words unspoken are the flower. Which means, some things are better left unsaid.”
They paint such a damning picture that it’s no surprise Charlotte managed to convince them. In fact, she barely had to do anything. It’s almost as if…
Oh.
Wriothesley feels the sudden urge to punch himself in the face for his stupidity.
No chance. There’s no fucking chance that Neuvillette’s been dating him for the past several years , and he hadn’t even noticed .
***
He goes to the surface. Despite his best efforts, it’s a big deal. Everyone in the Fortress knows that Wriothesley visits the overworld twice a month. He puts Sigewinne in charge when he leaves and he always returns to find everyone terrified and Sigewinne wearing a suspiciously serene smile. In any case, although he tries to slip out surreptitiously, he fails spectacularly. There’s already a mob surrounding his office the instant he cracks his door.
“Been waiting for me?” he asks, failing to hide his amusement. “You paid to skip work for this?”
A chorus of nods and confirmations.
He sighs, exaggerated. The inmates part for him to make a path towards the elevator as he walks. “You know it’s just work, right?” he calls.
The crowd erupts in laughter. Wriothesley rolls his eyes, exasperated but oddly fond. He swears the whole Fortress has shown up to see him out; he doesn’t even recognize some of them.
By contrast, the administrative section is virtually silent. But as he’s filing the paperwork for his departure, Marette looks up at him with a thin-lipped smirk. “I know a florist,” she says.
Wriothesley glances up. “Hm?”
“They’ve got rainbow roses, if you’re classy.”
He chucks the pen at Marette’s face. She just barks a laugh. “Have fun, kiddo.”
“I’m two years older than you,” he grumbles, but finishes signing his name anyway. He thinks he can still hear Marette chuckling, even as the elevator doors close behind him.
***
There is no crowd in the Palais, no ruckus, not like the inmates. Wriothesley signs in with Sedene, who doesn’t react to his presence at all, and knocks on Neuvillette’s office door.
Neuvillette opens it quickly. Upon noticing his visitor, his formal expression softens into something more genuine. “Ah, Duke Wriothesley,” he says, almost relieved. “Would you care for some tea? I’ve just received a shipment of Inazuman spring water that will pair excellently with-”
Wriothesley kisses him.
It’s barely a kiss, just a brief brush of their lips, but he can tell it’s enough for Neuvillette to understand: his eyes widen, and his lips part slightly, like he’s making space for the ghost of Wriothesley’s touch.
“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” says Wriothesley, a little breathless. “If you want me to get the idea.”
Neuvillette huffs an almost-laugh. “I was under the impression that you already knew.”
Wriothesley gapes. “How the fuck was I supposed to know?”
“I send you numerous gifts and write to you. I address every letter to you as ‘dearest’. I spoil my imported water on your teas. It was never particularly secret.”
“But you never thought to kiss me.”
Neuvillette hesitates briefly. “I did,” he admits, cheeks flushing slightly. “I was waiting for you to initiate. I figured you disliked physical affection, or that you were shy.”
“I’m not,” Wriothesley says. “I’m not shy.”
“Well,” says Neuvillette.
And he says nothing more, because he’s too busy kissing Wriothesley, properly this time, to finish his sentence.
***
From her table at the Cafe Lucerne, Charlotte sneezes.
(Maybe it’s her dust allergies acting up again. It hasn’t rained in a while, after all.)