Your heart fluttered, warmth spreading through it in an instant, the kind that felt like finally exhaling after holding something too tightly inside.

You didn’t turn immediately, you didn’t have to. It was a presence unmistakably his.

Your attention was drifting outward, still. The sea. The moon. The quiet ache beneath your ribs. 

He would claim your focus the way he always did. Patiently, poetically, with that quiet certainty.

“To selēnóphōs aichmálōton estin,” The words floated toward you first.

Then, came the touch.

His arms eased around you from behind, enveloping you with tenderness. He drew you close, close enough that the rise of his chest brushed your back, as though your presence was the very thing his soul sought more desperately than air.

“Hōsper kai sý.” he finished softly—“just as you.”

His lips moved slowly nearer to your ear, when his breath skimmed the sensitive skin there, sending a shiver down your spine. “Although I would prefer that my beloved would find a proper rest instead.”

You finally turned your head to meet his eyes, your own widened at the foreign words. “...What did you say?” you breathed, the question almost whispered.

A faint curve touched his lips. “Your concern is rather endearing.” He settled beside you now, any distance dissolving. “Fear not, philtátē mou. All that I speak of you is woven from adoration.”

His hand rose to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. He leaned in, the moonlight catching the soft intent in his eyes. “Ah, whatever shall I do for my love not to linger alone so late at night?”

Before you could gather an answer, he drew you nearer. His lips found the line of your jaw, planting a delicate kiss, then another - slower than the last. Each one encouraged your chin to tilt, your body to yield, your breath to tremble just slightly beneath his touch.

Your hands lifted to rest against his arms, fingers curling into the fabric as your eyes fluttered half-lidded, as if taking everything he might give you.

And so he let his mouth wander lower, brushing along your neck with tender, lingering kisses.

He guided you into his lap, holding you as if you were something he’d longed for all night. A quiet sound escaped you, as your weariness left no room for resistance. You simply melted into him.

Only when he lifted his head again did he pause, giving you the moment to breathe with him. Your foreheads nearly touched, breaths mingling, warm against the cold night air.

He tilted your head gently toward his chest, the warmth of his body pressing into yours as the both of you closed your eyes, indulging in each other's presence. 

Absent-mindedly, he ran his fingers through the locks of your hair, tracing invincible patterns, as if letting his movements speak of his devotion instead.

Then, through the silence he whispered.

“Ónar hēdéa soi, phōs mou lambrón.” The words lingered in the air, sacred and intimate.

“In the quiet of the night, I shall watch over you.” He added softly, his lips brushed your temple.

At last, your mind softened, surrendering to sleep, as if his presence alone were a lantern guiding you tenderly through the quiet corridors of dreams.

Two lovers indulged in their love in the moon's quiet dominion, love as serene as the silver light upon the tides.

‘Sorry…’ he’s making that pouty face that never fails to make his father feel bad when he’s disciplining him.

‘Ugh,’ the older Itoshi sighs ‘it’s fine, let’s just get you ready to go’ he says as he stiffly caresses the reddish hair of the boy sitting on his lap. You told him that he needed to be a bit more affectionate with the kid, so he’s making an effort these days.

Your husband steals a look at you, sleeping peacefully now hugging your pillow after he escaped from your embrace, and he can’t help but think that you’re a lucky bastard.

He goes on with his usual morning ritual, yet there’s a slight twist to it today as your son is following him around your house the whole time. 

They brush their teeth together, they go through his yoga routine together, while the kid clumsily mimics his father, and when Sae is busy styling his hair in the bathroom mirror, your son tries to replicate his hairstyle but just ends up getting hair gel all over the sink.

‘‘m sorry papa…’ The universe seems to be testing Sae’s patience and paternal skills today.

‘...Let’s just clean this before your mother wakes up.’

‘Can we have breakfast first? ‘m hungry!’ Was he even listening? 

Clearly not, because he already stepped off his step stool and bee-lined into the kitchen.

Yeah, this is going to be a long morning.

Sae is certain that the universe is plotting against him today.

They got stuck in traffic on their way to school and the kid hasn’t stopped running his mouth since they’ve left the house. 

Now, Sae is not usually bothered by this. 

His son is just a kid. They talk a lot. That's just what they do.

But he’s running on six hours of sleep instead of his standard seven. And when you’re feeling sleep deprived, having someone babbling in your ear is the last thing you need — Not to mention that he still has his practice to attend right after this.

So when he sees the school gate he almost sighs in relief. He just wants to get to the principal’s office and get this over with.

As the two itoshi’s parade across the school’s playground, they’re greeted with starstruck stares from the children who quickly recognised the older man as one of the best football players in the world right now.

None of them had the courage to approach them though.

They were just staring as if they saw the monster under the bed, letting their plastic shovels fall off their hands into the sandbox or bumping into each other like dominoes while sliding down the slide.

Having people stare at him creepily is nothing new to Sae, but when it’s a bunch of snotty nose kids doing it it’s a bit more offputting.

‘E-excuse me?’ A meek voice calls out and Sae looks down to see a kid holding a piece of scrap paper he probably got from the bottom of his bag and a black marker that he stole from his classroom.

‘What?’ the kid shrinks at the tone of sae’s voice.

‘Could… C-could you sign here please!’ Sae holds his breath, to prevent a groan or a snicker he doesn’t know. 

But even a man like him can admit that the scene in front of him is quite endearing. So why not give the kid what he wants, plus, he doesn’t want to look like a huge dick when his son he’s watching his next step so attentively.

‘Fine.’ he crouches down to the child's height and takes the paper from his trembling hand ‘who’s this for?’

‘T-takahiro’

Oh. 

So this is takahiro huh.

Sae takes a glimpse at his son’s displeasured face and already knows what to do. He takes the marker and removes the cap with his teeth before signing it, his son just grins evilly when he sees what his father wrote.

 ‘Here.’ Takahiro holds the piece of paper like he just found gold.

‘waa, t-thank you mr. Itoshi!’ he runs off with it to brag to the other kids, who are pestering him to see the autograph, without even reading first.

‘Takahiro-kun what does it say!’ ‘Can we see!?’ ‘ Wow, Itoshi-san's handwriting is worse than mine!’

 ‘It’s a signature dummy, it’s not supposed to look neat!’ Takahiro corrects his insolent classmate before reading the paper out loud.

‘‘Do I…look like a girl to you Takahiro-kun?’’ The boy's boastfulness is gone.

‘Why would he write that?’ ‘ You’re not reading it properly!’ ‘I told you his handwriting was bad…’

He looks up from the paper to see your son sticking his tongue out while he walks into the building hand in hand with his father.

Yeah. Serves him right.

Later that day, your husband and son are finally back home. They both throw their shoes carelessly at the entrance and your son runs out to look for you.

‘Mamaaa! We’re back!’

No response. That’s weird. 

Were you not supposed to be back from work?

They find you leaning on the kitchen island with your arms crossed and although your not showing your anger with your face, it’s pretty obvious you’re not happy either.

‘Mama?’

‘Hey sweetheart,’ you forget about how irritated you’re meant to be for a second ‘how was school today?’

‘So cool! I want daddy to take me to school every day!’

‘Of course you do…do you mind going upstairs for a second baby? I need to speak to your daddy right now. Alone.’

‘Okay!’

‘Good boy’ Now that there’s only the two of you in the kitchen, that anger you were suppressing is back. And Sae’s confused.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You tell me.’ What the hell are you so angry for? 

‘Can you just tell me what I did. I don’t have time for this…’

‘Takahiro’s mother sent me a very passive aggressive text today.’

‘Okay? So what?’ His nonchalant attitude is starting to really tick you off.

‘So what? What made you think it was okay to write that to a kid? How petty are you?’ Ah, so that’s what’s up with you.

‘He was being a dickhead to my kid, I was just defending him.’ Of course he thinks he’s in the right…my God.

‘Ugh, whatever’ you give up, there’s no point in arguing with him ‘Just know that you’ll be dropping him and picking him up every day for the next week. I don’t need the other soccer moms' side eyeing me for something you did.’

And Sae doesn’t dare to argue with you either. He knows there’s no point when you speak like that…

He mentally prays that this week goes by fast.

an — ty for reading hope you enjoyed part II <33 divider from;@/saradika-graphics

“well how do you think he gets any work done?” another rebutted. swirling the warm liquid in his cup before gulping it down in one go. “you can’t expect a man to write in complete darkness.”

“no, no, no! you got it all wrong! the light i’m talking about isn’t from a lamp—hell not even a candle! it was from a nightlight.”

 the table roared with laughter. some slapped their knees in disbelieving ecstasy, others looked at him like he had grown two heads. the tips of his ears turned red as he slammed his hands on the table, standing hunched over, trying to defend what he saw on that stormy night.

“i’m not lying!” he exclaimed.

one man wiped a stray tear that fell from all his laughter and waved him. “ya sure you just didn’t mistook it for somethin’ else? after all sir flin’s office is darker than the abyss we fight!”

“does it look like i’m lying?” he muttered, exasperatedly and called for another beer. “i know what i saw. these eyes are sharper than any of you lads in this room!”

“sure, sure. whatever you say.”

flins chuckled under his breath. he had quietly overheard bits and pieces and couldn’t help but listen in. with his back pressed flush against the wooden wall, he took one final swig of his drink before handing it back to the waitress, a simple nod in thanks before leaving the establishment.

if he were to guess, it would be nearing midnight, meaning his patrols would be over and his paperwork would be calling him like a singing siren. just the thought of it has flins shaking his head in dismay, the lamp in his hands lighting up to guide his path back to his private quarters. the streets of nod-krai are barren in this hour, and with nothing to entertain him, flins looked back on the day he got that nightlight his subordinates were gossiping about.

“here,” flins casually handed you a small item. “turn it on whenever you’re working late hours here.”

you tilted your head in confusion. you eyed it for a while, turning it here and there before flins sighed in quiet amusement. with a single tap from his finger, a small diamond shaped item that sat in your palm began to emit a soft purple glow. 

“it’s a nightlight,” flins explained and took the artifact back in his hold. he held it up to your face and watched as your eyes, quite literally, lit up in amazement. “children here in nod-krai often use them to ward off the night when it’s too dark.”

“are you calling me a child, sir?” you fired back without hesitation, a teasing smile illuminated by the small ball of comfort in flins’s hand. 

“on contrary, it’s quite the opposite. i’ve yet to meet another subordinate as diligent and responsible as you.”

you pressed your palms over the other, quietly asking for the nightlight back, and flins chuckled. his gloved hand rested on the crown of your head before pulling you in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “well, maybe sometimes you do act like a child.”

“okay, first of all—!”

flins snickered under his breath as the familiar creaking of his office door welcomed him. he blew out the light from his lamp and sat down on his office chair. the quiet vexation of his ever growing responsibilities invaded his mind, leading to a growing headache and longing in the pits of his heart. after a few minutes of quietly staring at his desk, he got up and took the nightlight kept safely in one of his drawers. with a single tap, it lit up with that familiar purple glow. 

“come back soon, [name],” flins muttered under his breath. a quiet smile tugged at his lips before he picked up his pen and started writing. “your little nightlight misses you.”

Sae squints over your shoulder as your lips part in disbelief over the brazen lies the gossip account has been posting. You feel his hot breath on your bare shoulder, stretching your arm further, knowing he's not wearing his reading glasses which he's left in the villa.

It's a lovely summer evening in Mallorca, miles away from Ibiza, and by some eerie circumstance the beach at your resort is empty, save for the two of you. Your day of sunbathing and reading had been pleasant, however, this preposterous rumour poked through your sanctuary of peace as a friend forwarded it to you.

This was one of many you'd had to endure in your three years of dating Sae (longer, if you'd count the long-distance pining), so it doesn't bother you as much. You know what you were getting into when you set your sights on a football prodigy as successful and good looking as Sae, though he hates how you placidly accept this news with a purse of your lips and a sigh.

He feels offence on your behalf as he spies the hotel staff setting up the candlelight dinner he plans on proposing to you at at the edge of the shore, the Cartier ring you've been eyeing for the longest time tucked into his bag.

Pressing a kiss to the juncture of skin between your neck and shoulder, he ignores the guilt that's creeping up his spine when he tells you to "pay the paparazzi no mind."

He can't help himself to slip his phone out and snap a picture of the scenery before him, you basking in the twilight in your bikini top, a copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation over your eyes as the blazing Sun sinks into the sea.

The decision to keep your relationship private was a mutual one; in the initial stages Sae didn't want you to be harassed by his legions of loyal fans, and you didn't want Sae, known for his private image to be harangued by reporters when they should be focusing on his performance. You never really talked about reverting this decision, and as time with him flew by, you became an expert at dealing with the baggage that comes with being involved with a celebrity.

However, when Sae feels your incadescent smile against his lips, the band on your finger glinting in the moonlight, the images of the beginning of a shared life flashing at the back of his head, he thinks that you shouldn't have to deal with his baggage any longer; not when the two of you were starting a chapter together.

Later that night, inhaling the scent of the ocean and strawberry margaritas in your hair as you sleep peacefully in his arms, Sae hits "post."

Oliver Aiku, who needs to be defended by you, the only person who he's ever posted

"Ooh, you're getting clocked," you giggle, carding your free hand through his hair and swiping through your Twitter feed with the other. Cracking one emerald eye open, Oliver lets out a weary sigh.

"What now?", he grumbles. "If they've finally traced back all those Barou dating rumours to me just know I've included you in my will."

"'Included'? Am I not getting your entire estate, you stingy old man?", you tease, tugging at his roots. He groans in response, mimicking a ruffled cat who'd just been rudely interrupted from its afternoon nap.

"And no, apparently, your exes have grouped together to do a confessional on you in some tabloid," you chuckle, passing him his phone. You, better than anyone else, know Oliver's complicated romantic past, womanising behaviour and hookup culture fuelled coping tendencies while the two of you pined for each other from the sidelines for years, hoping to erase thoughts of the other by pursuing half-assed relationships.

Not that it worked particularly well, considering you're spending summer break in his apartment in Stockholm simulating level of domesticity you'd taken to a little scarily fast.

Reading out some of the downright malicious things his exes have said ("Really? You'd place sports bets based on their recommendations? No wonder you lost so much cash."), he hears the tinkle of your laughter through his sun-dappled room at some of these quotes, happy at how you were secure enough with him to dismiss these silly one liners as figments of his unscrupulous past.

The truth is that he's really been trying. You've always been too important to him to fuck things up with — the source of his exes' despair of always being "obsessed with texting someone else at late hours of the night", courtesy of different timezones, or being the only person he'd pick up drunk when you'd be in Tokyo. For once, he was nervous about a relationship, treating you with unexpected gentleness.

You've taken many of his firsts, he realises: first proper date he actually planned out, first time sending flowers at two and three month anniversaries, all that corny stuff he never saw himself doing.

He only supposes you take this first and last from him, too.

Swiping off Twitter, Oliver begins poring through your Photos to find a suitable snap from last night when you'd met his friends at the club. Settling on one where he's wearing cufflinks with the initials of your name, he accesses his Instagram from your phone (a safety measure), calmly adding one more post to his limited feed.

Rin Itoshi, who's honestly been itching to do this for a while now

"For fuck's sake," Rin grouses, sipping the water you just handed him. Drenched in sweat, jersey sticking to his back, he'd been grateful when you showed up to give him company as he trained, saying something about "studying anatomy" while pencilling in your sketchbook as he took shot after shot.

Instead, he's subjected to you quizzically raising an eyebrow in the direction of his over-enthusiastic physiotherapist who had a thing for announcing to the public whenever her and Rin were together.

Peeved at the sheer idiocy of the rumour, and irritated at her complete disrespect for Rin's boundaries, with his dislike of publicity well-documented, you were rightfully going to march over and give her a piece of your mind. It wasn't like you'd spend your afternoons in the bleachers of the Parc Des Princes to soak in the sweat, or that Rin would saunter over to you in every free minute to critique your latest doodle — since the day you'd preached at him in the Louvre, everyone from the coaching analysts to substitutes on PXG knew you were a couple.

Rin can practically feel the annoyance radiating off you in an aura unlike the ones that possessed footballers during heated matches. A little pleased with the jealousy something as petty as a gossip column elicited from you, he appreciatively hands you the bottle back and gives your hand a squeeze.

"I've got this."

Though he has to wrangle out the passwords for his social media accounts from his management since he rarely uses them, Rin makes it a point to carefully vet and select photos of you and him during his break. Though he looks comical in some, and downright unflattering in others, he couldn't give a damn less seeing the excitement in your eyes as you lean over the barrier, Airdropping photos to him.

After curating the perfect post, Rin calls for his physio, who practically skips along the grass to the bleachers, but blanches when she sees your unimpressed expression.

"Take a picture of us," he brusquely asks, shoving his phone into her hands, downturned in a sneer. Before she can react, he catches you completely off guard, crashing his lips against yours. Your eyes are shut, but you know him well enough to sense that he's smirking right now. He kisses you a lot longer than necessary for one shot, snaking his hand along your waist for good measure, practically pulling you over the blue barriers on your tiptoes.

You squeak when he lets go, licking his lips ever so slightly as the mortified PT squirms while handing him his phone. "Huh. So you are half-competent at something after all."

Tabito Karasu, who's three months in and knows you're the one

Karasu's a perfect gentleman. Even before you started dating, back in highschool, he'd be one of those quietly chivalric guys who'd hold doors open or jackets above your head if it rained. The kind of guy who'd snatch grocery bags out of your hand despite making a quip about "weak arms." Now, you think that he's a little too perfect.

Things that would be a dealbreaker in other relationships, such as both of your packed schedules, the invasiveness of the internet and the fact that time was not on your side most of the time almost spurred Karasu on to make an extra effort. Your research is going late into the night? He's there to pick you up. You're craving takeout after being absolutely decimated by a physics seminar? He's already wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses, one foot out of the door.

Truth be told, Karasu's a little over-awed by you and your brain He thinks he could spent hours immersed in your world as you ramble on about the paradoxes and theories you're learning, or the cutting-edge research you're contributing to. Though it makes him acutely aware that he has much to learn outside of football, you satiate his curiosity in ways that make him feel that he's the only person you've deigned worth talking to.

Otoya makes fun of him for how whipped he is, and though he hasn't had much experience prior to you other than people just throwing themselves at him, he knows this is more than a fleeting crush. So he goes the extra mile in every little thing, sparing no expense.

The day your finals were over he ringed in the celebrations with you in your dorm, blasting songs he was surprised you even knew the lyrics to. Scaring him with your ability to recite Future bar for bar with him on "Low Life", Karasu feels overcome with an urge hold onto you for dear life. The need to make it exclusively clear to everyone around him that you're the one for him becomes much clearer when a shopping trip turns to an absurd coincidence in the rumour mill, one that's got you all nervous in front of him.

He can't help but feel the dull stab of anger as you, clearly overwhelmed by the opinion of the Internet, spend the day upset. If it's one thing he dislikes, it's when things don't go his way. Instead of complaining about it, though, the words leave his mouth before he can even process what they mean, a rarity for someone like him.

"Come with me to the JFA dinner this weekend."

BONUS: Shidou Ryusei, who never even thought it was a secret

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, [name] is guilty.

Neuvillette’s words seem to ring in the air, long overstaying their welcome as they persist in a buzz of illusory ostinatos over a backdrop of stunned silence. No one stirs as the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers unfolds before them. Instead, they watch with bated breath, never once daring to intervene, allowing every act of fate’s cruel masterpiece to play out in flawless tandem.

Nothing feels real until the moment the guards slip a pair of handcuffs around your wrists. Gradually, a sense of panic envelops your senses, prompting you to desperately turn to where Neuvillette had been standing. Fear begins to well up in the pit of your stomach.

You need his help.

But when your eyes land on the spot where your lover had once been, you find that he is all but gone.

Emptiness is all that remains as you’re escorted down to the depths of Meropide.

“Wriothesley,” you greet the man in front of you politely as you step into his office.

It’s only six in the morning, but you were unceremoniously dragged out of your bed earlier when you were informed that Wriothesley had sent for you. A few years ago, you would have complained about how rude it is to rouse someone from slumber without warning. However, after spending thousands of days in prison, you’ve grown to understand that societal norms have no place within the lifeless metallic walls of Meropide.

Everything runs on incentive alone. Coupons are all that matter within the underground prison, and as such, most inmates spare less than a thought towards moral obligations and frivolous sentiments. It’s a home for some of Fontaine’s most infamous criminals, for crying out loud! Only a fool would expect pleasantries to have any place in this bleak world.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Wriothesley gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.

“Take a seat, [name],” he says, his voice gruff yet comforting.

He’s been your only companion throughout your time in prison, as the other inmates have been a little too uncouth for your taste. Although Wriothesley tries to pretend he simply wants to be your friend, you know he has ulterior motives. You know the reason why he’s always checking up on you so often — why he’s been suspiciously interested in your day-to-day life.

Someone you’d rather not think about put him up to this.

Someone you used to love.

(You still remember the crystal raindrops that kissed your skin mere moments before you were taken underground. You wouldn’t put it past him to watch you from afar.)

“Is something up, Wriothesley?” you inquire.

The more he talks the better, you decide. Right now, anything is better than silence because silence is a harbinger of spiraling thoughts and unpleasant recollections. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drown the mantras gnawing at the edge of your conscience in a sea of cascading words.

“Brace yourself,” Wriothesley warns, “This is gonna be a tough one to stomach.”

You nod hesitantly. Wriothesley usually keeps your conversations lighthearted and casual, so you’re absolutely certain that he’s serious this time. His foreboding preface sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you steel your nerves and meet his gaze. Irises beaming with fading moonlight scan your eyes for any traces of hesitation, scrutinizing every sentiment that graces the windows to your soul.

“I’m ready,” you reassure him.

Although Wriothesley raises an eyebrow when he hears the tremble that unsteadily articulates your growing anxiety, he continues on. One thing about Wriothesley you’ve grown to appreciate is the fact that he never pries into your affairs (at least not openly).

“Alright,” he sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tension becomes tangible as momentary silence fills the atmosphere; it’s almost deceptively peaceful. Every transient second feels more akin to an eon spent in stagnation as suspense gnaws at your conscience. As much as you hope for the hush to dissipate with every fibre of your being, you also dread the moment your false utopia will shatter.

“Is it really that bad?” you make the mistake of asking Wriothesley.

The grimace that adorns his weary features tells you all you need to know. Before your mind can run through all the possibilities in a frenzied delirium of panicked theories, Wriothesley finally speaks up.

“It’s about him,” he clarifies.

You immediately know who he’s talking about.

It’s funny. A few years ago, you used to speak his name in a hushed tone, filled with admiration and brimming with ardor. Every whisper used to feel adoring, almost reverent, and as such, you had mistakenly believed your love was akin to an all-enduring everblaze, a crimson flame of passion that would burn bright and persevere through all.

The irony is nearly laughable. Dying embers and hollow sentiments are all that remain now. His name has become a taboo, a word that feels all-too-foreign as you attempt to fill in the silence.

“Neuvillette,” you whisper shakily.

An unpleasant ringing seems to manifest in your ears as all the memories you’ve been trying to repress ebb and flow in a wave of aquamarine recollections. You’re aware he’s always been an overwhelming presence, yet it becomes all the more obvious as thoughts of him invade and overload your mind.

Wriothesley confirms your suspicions in the form of a solemn nod. To your surprise, his steely grey eyes soften for what feels like the first time since you’ve met him, a gentle warmth stirring beneath layers of permafrost.

Great, so your situation is so abysmal that even Wriothesley is starting to feel sympathetic.

“What does he want?” you manage to breathe out.

A part of you doesn’t want to face your ex-lover ever again in this lifetime. And yet despite it all, your heart screams for closure, resolving to remain unrelenting in its desires until every loose thread of your tragedy has been tied up neatly. You don’t know what to hope for at this point.

“You remember the poisoning case from a few years ago?” Wriothesley questions you.

It takes all your willpower to resist the urge to scoff.

“Who would forget the murder that changed their life forever?” Your voice comes out wry, bitterness intricately working its way into each inflection. Despite your attempts to exercise restraint, you find that your emotions are beginning to overtake rationality.

“Alright,” Wriothesley says hesitantly, “then I guess there’s no better time to break the news.” The suffering in his drawn-out sigh is palpable. “Suspicious new evidence related to the case has emerged recently. The Marechaussee Phantom is beginning to suspect that there’s more to it than what they initially found,” Wriothesley starts. Before he can continue, you interrupt him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Right.” With an exasperated click of his tongue, Wriothesley moves on. “That’s where you come in. Since you’re so closely-linked with the events that occurred that day, the Iudex has specifically requested your help in the investigation. I take it the possibility of freedom is incentive enough?”

You huff. “Seriously? He has the audacity to ask for my help after all this time without so much as a word? Not even freedom could convince me to work with that absolute — !”

The stern look that manifests within Wriothesley’s sterling irises is enough to prompt you to pause. Although he doesn’t vocalize his concerns, the diamond-esque glimmers of worry that manifest in his eyes speak volumes. Don’t say something you might regret.

So instead of continuing on, you allow yourself a single sigh — an attempt to alleviate all your frustration in a single exhale.

“What I meant was, I’m not sure I could work with the Iudex in any official capacity,” you say, gritting your teeth lest any unsavory words find a way to slip out of your mouth, “given our… complicated history.”

Wriothesley shakes his head, a subtle showing of his displeasure at being caught up in a lover’s quarrel. You can’t really blame him. Any bystander would feel beyond vexed if they were tasked with piecing together the fading ruby fragments of a once-blissful relationship.

“I thought you might say that,” he responds, raising a hand to massage his temples. At the moment, the bags under his eyes appear more prominent than ever, and you begin to wonder how much grief your personal issues with Neuvillette will cause poor Wriothesley. “That’s why you have a week to decide.”

You narrow your eyes to meet a gaze woven from the essence of dimming moonbeams. Wriothesley stares you back, unflinching in his poise.

“Good luck getting me to change my mind,” you scoff. “I’m not facing him ever again.”

A pause.

Silence threatens to consume all under its weight, and you’re left wondering how nothingness can feel so heavy. Wriothesley’s nonchalance seems to disperse, vanishing in the midst of the tense ambience. Now you’re absolutely sure you’re in for a heartfelt conversation — an anomaly amongst the casual paradigm the two of you have been defining over the past few years.

“I’m not great with all this sentimental stuff,” Wriothesley starts, “I mean, I’m hardly experienced with romantic relationships myself despite my age.” He chuckles, and suddenly you feel as though the mood has lightened ever-so-slightly. “But trust me when I say Monsieur Neuvillette still cares deeply about you.”

Does he? Why would anyone stand by helplessly while the person they supposedly love more than life itself is taken from them forever?

Despite the protests that practically fly to the tip of your tongue, you continue listening attentively. Although you keep telling yourself you no longer care about your former lover, perhaps there’s still a small spark of incandescent hope lying somewhere within your heart — an ember of love awaiting a day where it will burst into brilliant flame once more.

“Think about it,” Wriothesley hums, his casual tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if he never broke character. “It’s been years since your case has been closed, and all the loose ends were supposedly tied up when you were sentenced, which means…” He trails off, waiting for you to piece together fragmented bits of logic within the recesses of your mind.

The muddled pieces of knowledge confound you, yet as you consider the implications of Wriothesley’s statement more carefully, a flicker of ingenuity comes to life in a sporadic burst of aureate sparks.

“Which means he never stopped investigating,” you conclude. “He believed it wasn’t me all along.”

The realization dawns on you in shades of phantasmagoric navy. It’s chilling, akin to the unwelcome touch of icy waters. Likewise, it overwhelms you. Its implications are far too profound to be ignored or pushed aside, and you begin to understand that you won’t be able to run away from the man you once loved for eternity.

“And?” Wriothesley adds.

“And he’s been trying to prove my innocence,” you breathe out, feeling disconnected from the moment.

Everything feels surreal, and the last few seconds feel no less oneiric than the ludicrous dreams you’re pulled into every night. It’s as if your world is twisting and turning upside down. You’ve spent all this time trying to incinerate every ounce of affection held within your heart for Neuvillette, bitterly blocking every memory of him from your mind all while he’s been tirelessly working to reunite with you.

Guilt pierces your entire being, enveloping you in a venomous sort of discomfort. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how unfairly you’ve been treating the man you were once hopelessly-devoted to. Even back then in your emotional state, you should have known he would never betray you, much less in such a profound manner. Yet a part of you is still bitter that it took him this long to do anything. You can’t find it in your heart to forgive him entirely.

Remorse is a complex sentiment. While it pushes individuals to grow and defy past ordainments, it also drives them to make decisions that become ironically more regrettable later on. You feel as though your situation will fit in the latter category as a desire to reconvene with your past lover blazes to life. You’re still beyond enraged when you think about him, but a small flourish of love still remains in your heart. There’s so much you want to know, so without a further thought, you relay your hasty choice to Wriothesley before you can stop yourself.

“Fine, take me up to the surface. I need to speak to Neuvillette.”

The moment you resurface for the first time in years, an epiphany overcomes your senses. You realize how much you missed all the sights and sounds of the outside world — how much you had taken everything for granted back when you were still free.

Every caress of an aquatic zephyr feels like a gentle luxury, and the sensation of golden sunbeams enveloping you in threads of luminous comfort is something entirely otherworldly. You savour the ephemeral peace and serenity that surrounds you, losing yourself in the salty spray of azure waves and the vast beauty of the divine skies above.

As someone who’s allowed above ground routinely for official business, Wriothesley either doesn’t notice your wonder as he escorts you to your destination, or he chooses not to comment on it. Perhaps the beauty of the overworld has become nothing more than a mundanity to him.

The Palais Mermonia is every bit as grand as you remember. It towers over Fontaine, as if watching over the city and all its affairs. The smooth stone walls and opulent detailings adorning the building serve as a welcome reminder of how magnificent Fontaine’s architecture can be — a nice change of pace after spending countless days locked away within the monochromatic metal walls of the Fortress of Meropide.

As Wriothesley leads you through the intricate doors of the Palais Mermonia, you feel a sense of anticipation swell within your heart. Polychromatic butterflies desperately flutter their wings in the pit of your stomach, manifesting in a swarm of discombobulating chaos. With every step you take towards Neuvillette’s office, you feel your feet grow heavier. By the time you’re standing before the entrance, you feel as if you’re practically glued to the ground. The only things that keep you going are Wriothesley’s watchful stare and careful guidance.

The dark-haired man beside you pushes the door open and motions for you to enter first. As much as you’d rather hide behind Wriothesley, you decide to swallow your nerves and step into the office before him.

Unfortunately for you, the first sight that greets you upon entering the office is the face of a man you’ve been trying to avoid for years now, whether in the waking world or slumber. Against your own will, you note that he appears just as breathtaking as the day you lost him. Every detail of his suit is as pristine as ever, not a single wrinkle in sight, no matter how hard you scrutinize. His hair looks as soft and voluminous as usual, each strand of cerulean a sharp contrast to silken starlight. Simply put it, nothing has changed, and as you look into his eyes, you realize just how accurate your inference is.

Molten tanzanite fills eyes akin to galaxies occupied by subtle glimmers of emotion. Even now, you find that you can read him perfectly. Although he appears serious on the surface, a single examination of Neuvillette’s gaze is all it takes for you to spot the luminous adoration that gleams beneath layers of carefully-crafted defenses.

Damn it. Don’t look at me like that.

It’s a look you’d recognize anywhere — a look you had once loved with all your heart, yet now it feels detestable more than anything. The ironic juxtaposition between your feelings in past and present nearly makes you laugh. It’s a bleak reminder of how greatly circumstances have shifted — how everything is wrong now.

Not a word is spoken as you sit down in a chair across from Neuvillette. Although you had assumed Wriothesley would join you, he stands off to the side before you can even protest. Any attempt to call him back over would definitely make it obvious that you didn’t want to have what was essentially a one-on-one conversation with your ex.

“[Name],” Neuvillette greets you formally, his tone steady and practiced. It feels unnatural after all you’ve been through; in the past, endearment would lace his tone each time he spoke to you, conveying the true depth of his feelings with a single whisper. This stiff rendition of the fantasia that used to be your name falling from his lips is nothing like the soft melody you’d become accustomed to so long ago.

“Neuvillette,” you shoot back, trying your best to keep your voice from reverting to its affectionate default. Although you’re unsure about acting cold towards the man, you’re certain neither of you would be fine with immediately going back to the way you were before the entire disaster unfolded in a matter of mere seconds.

(And besides that, you’re still somewhat angry it took him literal years to find a way to get you out of Meropide.)

“I hope you’ve been well,” Neuvillette says, his tone softening ever-so-subtly. Vulnerability works its way into a slight waver of his voice, a nearly-unnoticeable detail that any average person would miss. However, you are not an average person. You’ve acquainted yourself with every intricacy of Neuevillette’s personality over the years, and even now, every detail is preserved perfectly within the archives of your memory.

“I was as well as I could be in prison, I guess,” you mumble.

Even you’re not quite sure if your passing comment is an attempt at humour or a jab at your previous lover. Fortunately for you, Neuvillette doesn’t attempt to laugh. Instead, he simply nods.

“I see…” he trails off, staring at you intently. Eyes filled with hues of softened lilac and faint periwinkle blue bear into your soul, inspecting you with a gaze woven from twilight. Stardust suspicion seems to glint in Neuvillette’s irises, but he doesn’t pry. “What have you be—”

“Enough small talk. Can we get to the point?” you force out. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about the fact that Neuvillette still cares about you, so you push aside your emotions for the moment to focus on the main issue. As much as you want to ask what your relationship has become, everything feels far too overwhelming now that he’s in front of you again for the first time in years. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

Neuvillette pauses for a second, mulling over his next words. He doesn’t try to push the previous topic. Instead, he complies with your request.

“Work alongside me,” he says. “I’m aware that you may not find this to be the ideal arrangement, but ever since your sentencing, your reputation has become…” Neuvillette can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, so you interject.

“Awful? Dismal? Lower than low?” you chuckle bitterly. “I know. I didn’t expect any more when I agreed to come back up to the surface.”

For a second, pity sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes, a look reminiscent of fragments of sunlight reflecting off sapphire ocean waves. You promptly decide that you hate it.

“Yes. Although I would not put it in such — brazen terms. If you would like an opportunity to clear your name, I would suggest putting serious consideration towards aiding in the second round of investigation. Please do let me know your verdict as soon as possible.”

“Why are you asking me as if I have a choice? It’s either help you or return to prison. Obviously one option is better than the other,” you sigh as a shiver runs down your spine. You know you’ll be in for an awkward few weeks. Spending every second by Neuvillette’s side is a harrowing nightmare come to life, but there’s no better way out of your dilemma. “I’ll join your stupid investigation.”

“Very well then,” Neuvillette responds. “I will show you to your accommodations in due time. Guards will be stationed outside your door around the clock in everyone’s best interest.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even with contradictory evidence, you’re still going to be treated like a criminal until you’re proven definitively innocent.

“Please note that you will begin assisting me tomorrow.”

With that, Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley, acknowledging him for the first time since the two of you entered the room. “Mr. Wriothesley, thank you for escorting [name] to my office. You may now take your leave.”

A part of you wants to beg Wriothelsey not to leave you alone with Neuvillette, but for once, you decide that you have to start being brave. So with bated breath and a heavy heart, you watch as your sole companion in recent times turns away, heading back to an unreachable world below the surface.

You’re on your own now in a place that has become entirely foreign to you.

The silken covers of the bed you’re provided are surprisingly comfortable. Wrapping each seafoam-coloured blanket around your body feels like being enveloped in a cloud, and sinking into a soft mattress is a luxury you have long forgotten after becoming accustomed to your dorm in the Fortress of Meropide. Needless to say, you find your slumber shockingly restful despite all the turbulent feelings arising within the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake your rationality and fill you with a cold, chilling panic.

No, the panic only sets in when you’re escorted back to Neuvillette’s office the next morning by the two guards sent to oversee your activities. It’s akin to being plunged into the depths of freezing lapis waters, losing your grip beneath waves forged from midnight essence. A whole day alone together with Neuvillette is going to be a challenge, and unfortunately, your nerves get the better of you.

You hear his voice as cool perspiration forms on the back of your neck, slight shivers running down your spine.

“Good morning,” Neuvillette greets you, as composed and regal as ever.

You envy his ability to behave as though he’s tranquility personified, even in such an awkward situation. His composure is a virtue.

“You let me sleep in,” you note. The sunbeams that filter through Neuvillette’s window in a flurry of faded daffodil shades look nothing like the gilded threads of light that grace Fontaine at sunrise. Besides that, you can already hear a fair amount of chatter outside the office, and you even recall spotting a few passer-bys scurrying about as you were accompanied to the Palais Mermonia.

“Indeed I did,” Neuvillette confirms your suspicions.

You glare at him. “I thought you wanted me up bright and early to help you investigate.”

The man before you sighs. “Based on your behaviour yesterday, I inferred that the past few days have been rather taxing on you emotionally. I wanted to give you ample time to recuperate to ensure that you would be able to think optimally today.”

Neuvillette’s eyes soften, a rare sort of gentleness manifesting in dulled lavender, a hue pulled straight from an evening afterglow.

You recall a passing thought from a time you had watched nightfall overtake the heavens with Neuvillette a few years back. At the time, he had looked at you with the same soft gaze, examining you with an expression that conveyed unspoken understanding and affection. You remember noting the way his irises seemed to reflect the muted iridescent shades above. Back then, everything had been so tranquil, euphoric. A part of you can’t help but desperately wish to go back in time.

“Thank you,” you relent, finally acknowledging Neuvillette’s kindness.

Neuvillette shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me,” he states. “This is beneficial to both of us. After all, I don’t expect you to work effectively with a tired mind.”

Without another word, Neuvillette pulls out a pile of official documents, their worn ivory pages a stark contrast to a second untainted milky white stack he sets on his desk.

“As you may be able to tell, these are the case files from the initial investigation,” Neuvillette points to the first collection of papers, “and these are documents containing new developments.” He points at the pristine new records.

“Can you summarize what exactly made you revisit the case?” you ask Neuvillette. Personally, you don’t feel like spending a full day poring over documents instead of investigating. That’s just inefficiency at its finest. Why do that when you have someone who seems to revel in records to explain everything to you?

Neuvillette allows a light chuckle to slip past his lips, the sound a nostalgic fantasia as it reaches your ears. “I see that you haven’t stopped finding the easiest way to complete your tasks,” he jests, “but very well. This will save us a considerable amount of time.”

You sit with bated breath, suspense filling the atmosphere as you patiently wait to learn the exact evidence that may have altered your fate entirely.

“Firstly, to reiterate, the murder was a poisoning,” Neuvillette starts. “A member of the Marechaussee Phantom was found dead at a banquet with a drink in hand. Its contents were found to be normal for the most part, but when investigated more thoroughly, trace amounts of a toxic substance were found.”

You nod with fervour, every intricate puzzle piece of the case that had dictated your destiny all those years ago still fresh in your mind.

“You were the one who poured the drink.” Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you because for the first time in your life, you hear Neuvillette’s voice tremble slightly, like a resplendent leaf as it drifts on an autumnal breeze. “There was no way to prove your innocence at the time, and no matter how hard we tried to trace the origins of the poison, all we could discern was that it was fast-acting, which thankfully meant that there were no other casualties. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any compelling leads…” Neuvillette pauses, “until now.”

“Recently, a worker from a drink factory has approached us with reports of suspicious activities within the facility. Although most employees are kept in the front of the building to manage the machines and ensure that the quality of each bottle sufficiently meets company standards, there are a select few allowed in the back to oversee the entire operation.”

“What does this have to do with the case?” you interject. You can feel your interest waning as Neuvillette’s words become tangent-adjacent.

“Not everything is as it seems,” he assures you. “Around a week ago, the worker ventured into the back, desperately searching for one of their superiors. The higher-up in question had assigned them a task, and afterwards, they proceeded to disappear for weeks on end. When looking for their manager, the worker discovered the truth of the facility.”

Your breath hitches in anticipation.

“Put simply, the entire drink production operation is a deception. The company’s real purpose is to produce a rare variety of poison. Fortunately, we managed to procure a sample of it, and when tested, it was found to be identical to the very substance used to assassinate the victim of your case.”

Although you want to correct Neuvillette, you hold your tongue. There’s no point in getting off-track.

“So you want me to help you find out who put the poison in the bottle?” you ask.

Neuvillette nods. “We could have simply paid a visit to the Fortress of Meropide and interrogated you from there, but I thought you would appreciate a little freedom and control over your own destiny. Besides that, I know you’re competent, and the rest of the investigation could greatly benefit from your assistance.”

“Is that really all there is to it? I’m sure lots of people out here were against the idea of letting me roam free for fear of their own safety, so it must have been quite a challenge to get me out in the first place,” you scoff. “If my comfort was the only factor in play, then you would have simply taken the easy way out and questioned me in prison to appease everyone.”

For a moment, Neuvillette hesitates. Transitory silence fills the air before being fragmented into crystalline shards of dissonant revelation that cause goosebumps to grace the surface of your skin.

“Your intuition is as sharp as ever,” he sighs. Suddenly, he looks all too exhausted, and you begin to realize how hard he fought to earn you your temporary freedom. “All the citizens of Fontaine believe that the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale is perfect, flawless in its very nature. However, after your sentencing, doubt started to circulate, and I found myself among those who questioned the outcome of the case. It felt as though the full truth had not been revealed to us yet, and your punishment was ordained solely by a hasty collection of shaky facts gathered through a rushed investigation. It was entirely… unjust… the opposite of what Fontaine stands for.”

“There it is. You’re doing this all in the name of what’s right, as usual.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting Neuvillette to say. Perhaps you wanted him to tell you that he would never lose faith in you, his once dearly-beloved. Or maybe you were wishing with every fibre of your being that he would simply say he still cared and wanted you back.

But no, he’s Neuvillette.

Above all, he is fair.

He is justice.

The gazes of everyone in the interrogation room seem to burn with the light of a thousand stars, their pressuring radiance serving as an instrument of truth — a way to seek sincere answers to any questions that are posed. You shrink under their phosphorescence, feeling insignificant as the demands of all the officials in the room coalesce.

Before you stands Neuvillette, a few guards, and a couple members of the Marechaussee Phantom. You recognize the latter two as personal friends of the victim — people with personal stakes in the case.

“Do you remember who gave you the bottle?” a melusine inquires.

You force yourself to take a deep breath in, oxygen feeling like the sweetest ambrosia as you try to calm yourself. It’s funny. The small creature is at most half your size, potentially even less, yet you’re the one who feels intimidation well up in the pit of your stomach like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.

“A man named Gabriel, I think? He handed me the bottle while I was walking around and asked me to pass it around for him because he was busy running other supplies around the party.”

“That seems to line up with the records from the trial,” Neuvillette muses, flipping through his documents, “but when we investigated, we found no trace of such an individual, which leads us to believe that they utilized an alias and a disguise to conceal their true identity.”

You have enough restraint to hold back a groan. Here we go again with all the complexities.

“The bottle was screwed shut and completely full before you poured the victim a glass of juice, correct?” The melusine continues their questioning, meeting your eyes with a gaze composed of molten tourmaline.

“Yes,” you confirm. “Doesn’t that just make me look more guilty though? Clearly the poison couldn’t have been in the drink because the bottle hadn’t been unsealed yet, so the court deemed that the only logical conclusion was that I slipped something into the victim’s drink in the split second where nobody was looking.”

The melusine sighs. “With the emerging evidence, we’ve come up with a new theory. If the person responsible for the murder truly wasn’t you, then perhaps the actual perpetrator had a different means of mixing the toxic substance with the beverage. Keep in mind, the poison manufacturer is also a drink manufacturer.”

You pause for a moment, a frown etching itself into your features. You’re starting to see where this is going, but you don’t quite understand the big picture yet. “Elaborate, please.”

Neuvillette takes over. “If our new running theory is correct, then this is how the timeline of events occurred. The suspect was likely an authority figure at the aforementioned drink company, or at the very least, they were relatively close with someone who had power there. In order to throw off the investigation, they managed to spike the beverage before it was sealed in the factory. By doing this, they falsely led us to believe that the poison was poured into the cup instead of into the bottle, thereby alleviating the manufacturer of any suspicion.”

Oh. Suddenly everything is beginning to make a lot more sense. As each string of evidence begins to fall into place, a tapestry of truth is woven. At long last, an alternate story is starting to replace the false narrative that had been in circulation at the time of the case’s unraveling.

“It worked,” you breathe out. “Nobody even bothered to check the contents of the bottle because they were so focused on who was close enough to sneak something into the victim’s cup in the brief moment between the pouring of the drink and the first sip.”

“And for that I must apologize,” Neuvillette sighs, a thousand unspoken regrets lacing his tone. “Our investigation was not thorough enough, and this time, I do not intend to allow any more injustices to befall you.”

As you peer into Neuvillette’s eyes, you catch sight of sincerity manifesting in their depths, each glint of violaceous luminosity conveying a silent promise to protect you. At that moment, you’re sure that Neuvillette believes you were nothing more than an innocent bystander entangled in a web of schemes. Even if the rest of the world is still against you, at least you have him.

“Thank you. I’ll try my best to help you as much as I can.” You finally relent and decide that perhaps it’s time to adopt a policy of compliance; now that you’re sure your intentions all align, you feel ready to work with Neuvillette without reservations.

“Permission to share what we found out about the bottle?” the melusine from before interrupts your moment with Neuvillette, your transient flash of bliss disappearing within a blink. You can’t blame them, as your main priority right now is getting to the bottom of things.

Neuvillette nods, wordlessly indicating his approval.

“As you may know, we took in all items related to the investigation that day. The bottle of beverage was among them. We recently tested the liquid inside, and as expected, there were traces of poison mixed with the drink. It’s worth noting that the drink itself is the same one produced by the suspicious facility we received a report about recently.”

“So I’ve almost been proven entirely innocent?” You can’t resist the urge to ask, the idea of being pardoned after being assumed guilty for so long a saccharine respite.

“Yes, as long as we can apprehend the real criminals and get them to confess to their crimes, you’ll be free,” the melusine confirms. “Fortunately, the worker and the contents of the bottle have led us to the perfect place to start our second inspection — the factory.”

Not even a day later, you rise bright and early to look into the manufacturer with Neuvillette. As the suspect framed in a murder linked to the factory’s poison, your reappearance above ground is bound to set off some red flags in the minds of those who helped orchestrate the entire ordeal. Consequently, you don an uncomfortable disguise while Neuvillette simply plans on masquerading around the place as himself.

It’s ironic. Neuvillette, the renowned Iudex of Fontaine, can roam without fear of interference as his genuine self. Meanwhile, you, a mere nobody, are forced to adorn yourself with layers of obscurities, masking every aspect of your identity.

The contrast between your situations is almost amusing, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Even as silken strands of opulent golden sunlight grace your skin, sending a rush of warmth through your body, you can’t help but tremble. The stakes are high, and the possibility of being discovered is distressing to an extreme.

“Shall I go over the narrative one last time?” Neuvillette asks you as your destination seems to grow larger and larger. The grey stone that the building is forged of is reminiscent of the colour of storm clouds — ominous and foreboding.

“Wouldn’t hurt to,” you mumble, willing yourself to stop shivering immediately. You’ll draw even more attention to yourself if you continue to shake like ultramarine ripples on the surface of a turbulent lake.

“Fontaine’s food and drink products have been suffering a decline in quality lately,” Neuvillette states, “and we are here today to perform a health inspection. Although the Iudex is typically not involved with investigating such trivial matters, the issue has become profound. The lives of several Fontainians have already been jeopardized, so in an attempt to prevent any further tragedies, I have decided to personally step in alongside my assistant.”

You hum absentmindedly, still distracted by your nerves. It feels as though permafrost has infused itself with your soul, as you continue to quiver despite all your attempt to ground yourself. “Compelling,” you manage to force out.

You’re drawn back to reality by Neuvillette’s next actions. To your horror, his familiarity with your emotions due to your shared history is your detriment. Before you can process what’s happening, he takes your hand in his. His gentle grip is soothing, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that you’re in this together.

“No matter what happens, I will be by your side,” he reassures you.

For a second, it feels like you’re back in the past. Everything is fine between you and Neuvillette, and you can still trust him unconditionally. Although your relationship has deteriorated now, you find that his presence still brings you a sense of comfort.

Perhaps some sentiments are simply meant to endure forevermore.

There’s nothing remarkable about the inside of the factory at first glance. As expected, typical assembly lines are present within the vicinity to ensure that every bottle is assembled and packaged in an efficient manner. On the surface, nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary.

Your tour guide is friendly and welcoming, not intimidated in the slightest by Neuvillette’s regal presence. Although his appearance garners a few curious glances from the employees you pass by, no one is outright alarmed.

“So as you can see, our humble facility does indeed live up to all the health and safety regulations mandated by Fontainian law,” your guide concludes as your mundane tour draws to a close.

In all honesty, you’ve learned nothing even remotely useful. However, you refuse to leave empty-handed. As such, you decide to make an impulsive decision — a choice that will perhaps cast suspicion upon you, but if everything goes well, you could obtain crucial evidence pertaining to the case.

“We haven’t seen the back of the factory yet,” you muse. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from us? Mold, perhaps?” you pause for dramatic effect, trying your best to play it up. All you can do is desperately pray that your acting skills are enough to convince the tour guide you’re being genuine. “Or maybe an insect infestation.”

A laugh slips past the tour guide’s lips, piercing the awkward atmosphere with a timbre and articulation far too forced to indicate any sort of amusement. No, the guide is nervous, which means something is definitely off. You just need to gather concrete evidence of the misdemeanours being conducted behind the scenes of a grand diversion — something that means more than a simple vial of poison hailing from an unknown origin brought to you by a worker.

“Oh, my superiors typically prefer privacy,” the guide continues to chuckle, a slight hint of anxiety permeating his tone. “There are lots of important meetings held in the back, and they’re not the most fond of disturbances.”

One scrutinizing glance from Neuvillette is all it takes to send the guard reeling. Eyes swimming with delicate lilac narrow, any hint of gentleness fading like the brilliance of wilting petals.

“But I’m sure they can make an exception for our most honoured guests.” Swiftly, the guide makes his way over to the door leading to the back, pulling it open and gesturing for both you and Neuvillette to pass through.

Yet again, you find that you’re met with a sight that’s mediocre at finest. There’s nothing extremely telling about the meeting rooms you’re led through. However, as you wander through the winding corridors and desolate hallways of the surprisingly large area, you spot it — a sizable wardrobe sitting within what feels like the hundredth meeting room you’ve passed through.

Like everything else in this strange place, there’s nothing off about the furnishing upon initial inspection, but after a few moments of careful consideration, you note that it’s far too sumptuous to be in a place like this. It’s horribly out-of-place, a polished oak eyesore amongst the cool-toned decorations within the room.

As you share a look with Neuvillette, you can see that he’s having similar thoughts. At some point in time, someone moved the wardrobe into the room, likely to conceal something. Taking a closer look is essential, but first you need to find a way to distract the guide.

“Excuse me,” you interrupt the guide’s tangent. “Is there a bathroom anywhere nearby?”

Within a matter of minutes, both you and  Neuvillette are escorted over to the nearest bathroom. You enter the room and lock the door. Although you haven’t had an opportunity to discuss a plan with Neuvillette due to the prying ears stationed right next to the two of you, you know what he’ll do next. You’re sure he understands you well enough to know that what you need at the moment is a diversion.

Sure enough, your silent pleas are answered as Neuvillette walks a few steps away from the bathroom door, his footsteps thrumming against the frigid ground as a percussive background to the eerie soundtrack that seems to flood the entire factory.

“Is that an insect?” he inquires.

You hear a rush of frenzied steps, ones that you can distinctly differentiate from Neuvillette’s. That must be the guide.

“Where?” the guide’s voice rings out.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing as the guide supposedly leans over in order to take a closer look. Then, a loud bang shatters the quietude into jagged shards of chaos. You take it as your sign to open the bathroom door and sneak off quietly.

“Ah, forgive me. I was mistaken,” you hear Neuvillette’s voice fade into the distance.

The labyrinth of passages is difficult to navigate, but thankfully your memory is sufficient enough to guide you back along the route from whence you came. In a matter of minutes, you’re back at the wardrobe, scrambling to unveil every enigmatic secret hiding behind its prosaically plain exterior.

Common sense tells you to simply open it first, and sure enough, you find that the back of the furnishing has been hollowed out in order to form a passageway leading to an unknown location. Although you’re nervous, moving forwards is the only way you’re going to make any progress.

You force yourself to confront the mysterious tunnel, heading into its depths in order to collect the next piece of information you need to fully unravel the identity of the true killer.

This is for justice, you tell yourself. Begrudgingly, you also find thoughts of it’s what Neuvillette would do invading your mind.

When you finally step into a mundane office space, you feel as though you can breathe again. The daze slowly begins to subside, and in its wake, you find rationality once more.

Time is of the essence, so you decide to head over to the singular desk stationed in the room. On its surface is a collection of scattered papers, some frayed and others in mint condition. Immediately, you make a dash for the yellowed pages, scanning each one quickly before setting it down.

The documents seem to detail transactions between the company and those buying from their hidden business in the back. Each one is stamped with a date and a signature from the buyer stating that they will not (under any circumstance) reveal where the product they purchased came from. Perfect — all you have to do is find a file that seems to align with the relative time period where your crime took place.

Fortunately for you, the once-daunting plethora of papers is actually a far more meager pile than you had initially thought. Perhaps not many people know about the nefarious schemes that lie behind the factory’s fabricated façade, or maybe humans are simply sensible enough to avoid purchasing poison.

You search urgently, constantly looking over your shoulder and hoping, praying, to any archon listening to keep your deeds obscured and unwritten. However, through it all, you’re hindered by the fact that you have to actively try not to move things around too much. If someone returns to see that objects have shifted on their own, they’ll surely be on high alert.

After what feels like eons of blindly flipping through anything you could get your hands on, your eyes settle on a splotch of achromatic ink bleeding into canary. It’s a familiar date — around a week before your entire life fell apart. You grab the paper, and with one last scan of the other files, you’re nearly certain that it details the transaction of the very poison that broke down fate’s last defences, landing you in a prison you were never supposed to step foot in.

With haste, you stuff the document into your pocket and set off back to Neuvillette.

“We used to frequent that restaurant often,” Neuvillette muses as you wander the streets together.

Your tour had concluded around half an hour ago, and now you’re on your way back to the Palais Mermonia. Although you assured Neuvillette that you had obtained some useful evidence earlier through words whispered in the secrecy of a hushed voice, you know that you can’t discuss anything openly for fear of nosey bystanders — or worse, the criminals themselves — hearing.

You had taken a long time to find what you needed, so consequently it had been difficult to throw off any lingering doubt harboured by your guide. However, thanks to Neuvillette’s quick thinking, you were able to come up with an alibi.

The whole “bathroom” ruse had simply been a test — a plan to conduct your thorough inspection of the facility in an area typically skipped over, even on the most comprehensive tours. You had chimed in and said that the company passed with flying colours, and at that the guide simply beamed and continued leading you through meeting rooms.

Your reminiscence is interrupted as Neuvillette speaks again.

“Perhaps we should take a detour and visit,” he offers. “You must be famished after a day of hard work.”

You freeze, and your body tenses against your will. Isn’t it more important at the moment that you safely transport your evidence back to Neuvillette’s office? You tilt your head at Neuvillette curiously, as if to pose a question. Why are we wasting time?

“Trust me,” he leans in to whisper. You can feel his breath tickling your ear, yet you don’t flinch. It’s a feeling you had grown accustomed to years ago, and even now, having him close to you feels detestably right. “It will seem more like a casual outing if we make a leisurely stop along the way back. If we’re seen rushing back to the Palais Mermonia with a sense of urgency in our stride, then those around us will surely conclude that something is wrong.”

Neuvillette’s reasoning is sound, so despite your aching feet and your desire to simply get away from the cacophony of symphonic noise surrounding you, you allow him to pull you towards the restaurant. As you walk in, you find that all your senses are enveloped by the familiarity of deja vu. The pleasant lighting and floral arrangements begin to pop up in your memory, and the ornate furnishings that adorn the place are the same as ever.

A part of you finds that you missed this. You missed your simple traditions with Neuvillette.

The two of you are seated the moment you step foot in the restaurant. You can’t seem to recall if the staff had ever been this efficient before, but something tells you this is a special circumstance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” a waiter greets the Iudex as you both take your seats. You find that you recognize him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here with company, much less someone other than [name].”

Right. No one recognizes you because you’re still clad in your stupid disguise.

“Ah, good evening, Pierre,” Neuvillette responds. “My companion here is a newly-hired assistant. They have been working tirelessly all day, so I decided to treat them to a meal. Although they are not [name], I hope you will be able to treat them with the same hospitality.”

A frenzy of nods follows Neuvillette’s words.

“What can I get for you today?” Pierre frantically asks you. As usual, people are eager to please Neuvillette, his position of power ever-pertinent within the recesses of their minds.

You scan the menu, and a rush of nostalgia overwhelms you for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days. There are a variety of dishes listed in neat loopy handwriting, each cursive word causing recollections to ebb and flow within your memory. However, your eyes settle on one menu item in particular — a former personal favourite of yours. Feeling satisfied, you decide to place your order. As you speak, you notice shock dance across the waiter’s visage.

“Is something wrong?” you question Pierre, scrutinizing his dumbfounded expression. If you could, you would dissect the meaning behind every line etched into his features — examine the anatomy of his curious stare.

Pierre shakes his head with fervour. “Nothing’s wrong, per se…” He trails off, the aquamarine lakes that comprise his irises fogging up with a shine unique to someone who’s reminiscing. “It’s just… that dish is one of our least popular, but [name] used to order it all the time. Nowadays, the only person who really consumes it regularly is Monsieur Neuvillette himself.”

Tension begins to materialize within the previously-lighthearted air of the restaurant. Suddenly, the atmosphere feels heavy as the implications of Pierre’s statement sink in. Once upon a time, you had offered Neuvillette a bite of your food when dining here, and although he didn’t mean to insult it, he did say that he understood why it was unpopular. In other words, he indirectly insinuated that he didn’t like the taste of the dish.

Perhaps you’re overly-optimistic, but a part of you begins to speculate that Neuvillette only willingly ordered the menu item regularly because of the memories associated with it. It’s a shockingly sweet revelation. Despite your distance over the years, he’s still tried his best to keep you in his heart.

Bittersweet affection gnaws at your heart, chipping off pieces of garnet in a cataclysmic heartbreak. As if you don’t already feel bad enough about your attempted erasure of his existence from your memory during your time in prison.

You zone out as Neuvillette places his order. All you manage to catch is the fact that he doesn’t ask for a serving of your favourite meal this time around.

So it really was all for you.

As Pierre walks away, you turn to study Neuvillette, your gaze sharp.

“What was that all about?”

For a second, Neuvillette stills, collecting his thoughts. Then, he makes eye contact, a stare composed of crepuscular shades of amethyst.

“I must admit, my heart longed for you throughout the years we spent apart,” Neuvillette confesses.

Darn it. Why can’t he be normal for once?

Your heartbeat, once a steady rhythm, begins to become erratic. It pounds in your ears with an unmatched urgency, as if its ultimate goal is simply to leap out of your chest and retreat back into your ex-lover’s gentle grasp.

“I see,” you mumble, beginning to feel awkward.

Silence envelopes your own personal world with Neuvillette as you wait for the waiter to come back with your food. Neither of you can bring yourselves to keep the conversation going. Any small talk would seem disingenuous at this point, and the mere idea of pressing on with the previous topic is enough to make you shudder.

Thankfully, Pierre is surprisingly quick (although that may have something to do with the fact that you’re dining with the Iudex himself), and you find that you’re able to dig into your meal to distract yourself in no time.

It tastes the same as you remember. In fact, nothing has really changed, even with the passage of time. Out of everything in the entire restaurant, you find that you and Neuvillette have undergone the most profound transformations, your once-loving relationship eroding into a confusing mess of broken trust, dubious betrayals, and yearning.

(At the end of the night, you find that a miniscule ember of love remains alive in your heart — a weak crimson glow beginning to ignite once more.)

The journey back to the Palais Mermonia is tranquil, the night air soothing the anxious thoughts plaguing your mind. Stars beam down at you from above, shedding brilliant silvery light over the entirety of the nation. Likewise, the moon guides your path back to the grand building where you wrap up your investigation for the day.

Upon entering Neuvillette’s office, you immediately beeline for his desk, pulling the document that took you a painstaking amount of effort to obtain out and setting it on the polished wooden surface. Curiously, eyes the shade of dulled anemone petals scan the contents of the page.

Neuvillette reads quickly, taking in all the information contained within the file in no time. After a lifetime of poring over records, he’s become accustomed to processing critical points of knowledge efficiently. However, he freezes as his gaze settles on the signature at the bottom of the page.

“What’s up?” you ask him.

You’ve never seen Neuvillette quite so shaken up, his composure torn away from him momentarily. In the moment, all that matters to you is ensuring that he’s okay. Before you realize it, you find yourself reaching out to him, an evanescent flash back to the past in a present that feels so far-removed. A few days ago, you never would have dreamed of comforting him, much less allowing him to make any sort of contact with you. Now, however, you’re beginning to unwind all the hasty misconceptions you had harboured for years on end.

You’ve come to understand that despite being worlds apart, you were still at the forefront of all Neuvillette’s sentiments throughout the past few years. He’s cared about you from afar beyond simply spying on your life through Wriothesley for all this time. It’s time you finally start treating him right.

To your relief, he doesn’t refuse your hand. Instead, he intertwines your fingers as he continues to gape at midnight upon ivory, reading the buyer’s name over and over. Finally, the calm returns to Neuvillette, his vulnerability dissipating after what feels like eons (in actuality, it’s no more than ten seconds).

“Apologies,” Neuvillette says, his voice as steady as ever. “Seeing the signature of the buyer… confirmed a suspicion of mine. However, this revelation is not necessarily a thrilling one. In fact, I would say that it is rather… disappointing and tragic.”

You tilt your head slightly, wonder swirling through your thoughts in spirals of erratic questions. “Why’s that?”

The sigh that Neuvillette heaves out is perhaps the most dramatically-depressing noise that’s ever left his lips. Creases line his forehead, marring porcelain skin with lines that convey concern and dismay.

“This is the name of one of our current Marechaussee Phantom members,” Neuvillette breathes out. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who assumed the position of the victim after their death. In addition to this, he was the only member who was intentionally not informed of the dealings of the deceptive factory. I withheld information from him because I had my own suspicions. I fear that my judgement was correct. If I had informed him that we were looking into the facility, these records would have been destroyed long before we stepped foot inside the building.”

“Wait a second! That sounds way too suspicious,” you say, your voice coming out slightly more aggressive than you want it to. You flinch as your tone reaches your ears. “Why didn’t anyone look into them or at least suspect them?”

“He was the deceased’s lover.” Your breath hitches as Neuvillette continues his explanation. “His grief after learning of the death was immense, so much so that no one could dare to consider the possibility that…”

“That he was the culprit,” you finish. “No one wanted to believe the lovers could betray each other.” You nearly scoff as you realize the irony of you saying this to your very own ex.

Neuvillette nods as you exhale tiredly. Everything is finally coming together after years. At long last, you’ve found another candidate for the possible murderer — the real deal this time.

“I had my doubts about him,” Neuvillette mumbles. “Although tears serve as an effective distractor, insincerity shines brighter than even the most dramatic of theatrics. I have never revealed this to anyone, but besides his qualifications and honouring the memory of our fallen comrade, one of the reasons I assigned him to his current position was to maintain a close watch over him at all times. Despite the precautions I took… I had hoped with all my heart that I would not be proven right.”

“And yet you were, so what now,” you inquire. “Do we just apprehend him and call it a day?”

“I would be pleased if it were that easy,” Neuvillette smiles wryly, “but there are many who would still be unwilling to trust our claims without further evidence. Think about it — would you really want to believe that a trusted member of the Marechaussee Phantom is a cold-blooded murderer? The very notion is inappropriately ironic.”

As Neuvillette’s reasoning sinks in, you nod along. What he’s saying makes sense, but you’re unsure of how you should proceed from here. To your relief, Neuvillette has a solution, as always.

“Considering the fact that the perpetrator has insider information, he’s already aware that we are currently revisiting the case,” Neuvillette reiterates. “As such, his main priority at the moment is to cement your status as the real culprit behind the crime. All he needs is an ample opportunity.”

This is getting far too complicated for your liking.

“In order to catch him in the act, we’ll organize another banquet. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to frame you for another poisoning.”

Neuvillette’s logic is hard to follow, and as you pause to think about it, every thread of reasoning becomes lost in a jumble of nonsensical speculation.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter. “He’s not stupid enough to assume that I’d poison someone right after obtaining freedom. That would look too hasty, so foul play would be suspected immediately.”

“And that’s why I think he’ll target you with his poison,” Neuvillette interjects.

Your frown deepens as his claims become more and more bizarre.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me explain everything,” Neuvillette starts. “In order to connect the two cases to each other, the perpetrator will likely use the same weapon again. However, this time his target will be you. As you pointed out, if he harms anyone else, it will instantaneously appear as though someone is eager to falsely accuse you of committing crimes. By non-fatally poisoning you, he can claim that you willingly drank your own weapon in an attempt to throw off suspicion. He can point to the similarities in the compositions of the substances used in both cases to frame you as the one true mastermind behind everything.”

The pieces finally begin to coalesce in your mind, forming a shaky plan that hinges on oceans of luck and protection from Celestia above. It’s risky, but it may be your only chance to set things straight.

“Your great plan is just based on endangering me in order to collect a sample of whatever that person is going to give me?”

“I understand that it may be difficult for you to trust me entirely after everything,” Neuvillette sighs, “but if you agree to my proposition, then I promise I will personally ensure that no harm will come to you.”

After the events of the past two days, you know where your heart wants to stand. In spite of this, your mind screams at you to reject Neuvillette’s idea. You’re scared — terrified. The thought of being let down by Neuvillette again induces a fear in you like no other. Despite it all, you understand that you’ll never truly heal if you don’t at least try to give him another chance, so ultimately, you decide to comply.

“Alright, let’s start party planning.”

Weeks of preparation lead up to the big evening, every passing day a countdown to a finale to end all finales. On top of gathering supplies, arranging catering, and decorating, you’re also drilled on how to act when the moment of danger eventually arrives. You train relentlessly to ensure that Neuvillette’s scheme will go off without a hitch.

All your tireless practices pay off. As you walk into the banquet venue, hand-in-hand with Neuvillette, you find that you’re far less nervous than you had been when the idea was initially proposed. The kaleidoscopic butterflies that once fluttered around in the pit of your stomach have stilled, and you’re utterly calm — exactly what you need to pull this off.

Despite assisting in the planning of the party, you still find yourself awed by the extravagance of it all. You’re not quite sure if Neuvillette has come up with an occasion for celebration yet, as he had initially stated that it was a surprise on the invitations he had sent out. However, you’re sure that no matter its grandeur, the sheer opulence of everything around you is more than sufficient.

Aureate accents adorn nearly every item in the room, and the crystal chandeliers above gleam as though they’re catching moonlight from the midnight sky. The music that envelopes you is warm, each melodious note ringing out in a sweet droning of strings. It’s a perfect backtrack for an elegant waltz.

Most noteworthy of all, however, are the guests that surround you. Not a single person is dressed less than exceptionally. Sparkles, gems, and sequins are commonplace here despite being everyday rarities. Shades of seafoam, cobalt, turquoise, and periwinkle surround you as if the fabric of every guest’s clothing is a component of a lavish ocean of luxury.

Everyone around you dons elaborate masks that obscure only a portion of their faces. It’s a masquerade — a way for you to conceal your true identity from innocent civilians without appearing odd.

You’re quickly dragged out of your thoughts as Neuvillette leads you into the crowd. Everyone is swirling around in a series of intricate steps, twirling to the song that’s resonating within the idyllic air of the room. If not for Neuvillette’s tight grasp on your wrist, you fear you would have been swept away by a tide of partygoers.

“Do you recall how to waltz?” he asks, leaning in closer to ensure that you’re able to hear him over the unpleasant discordance surrounding you from all sides.

“Why does it matter?” you shoot back. Although you’ve opened up more and more to Neuvillette with each passing day, you’re not quite sure you want to dance with him just yet. “It’s not like this is necessary.”

“If we simply sit on the sidelines and observe everything, our suspect is bound to notice,” Neuvillette explains, his voice hushed. “Their eyes will be on you all night.”

The words send a shiver down your spine.

“So do your best to enjoy the moment and act as though you’re simply here to rejuvenate yourself.” Neuvillette pulls you closer, yet he leaves enough room to ensure that you’re not outright uneasy. “Is this arrangement sufficiently comfortable?”

You nod shakily as words seem to stick to the sides of your throat. It’s as though saccharine honey is sugar coating everything, its viscous properties slowing both your lips and your mind.

With your consent, Neuvillette guides you through the steps of a graceful dance. Although he moves with tact, practiced sophistication, you’re the absolute antithesis. Throughout your years underground, you never saw the opportunity to waltz, and as such, you’ve forgotten every intricacy of the choreographies you used to run through with Neuvillette. Thankfully, he keeps you in line, correcting every misstep you make with gentle guidance.

You find that the tenderness with which he handles you is something you’ve missed. Even now with contrasting feelings warring in the depths of your conflicted mind, Neuvillette’s arms are comfort manifested in a physical form. At the end of the day, he’s still home to you, and maybe he always will be. No one else will ever be capable of calming you down right before a criminal attempts to poison you.

For once, you decide to take Neuvillette’s advice. You forget all the duress of the current moment, and instead, you allow yourself to savour the warmth of Neuvillette’s embrace. So much for not being sure about dancing with him.

Time becomes an anomaly. Although each moment seems to slow, drawing out in a montage of careful movements, the dance is over before you know it.

Neuvillette leads you over to your table, and you take a seat atop the rose-coloured cushions of a plush chair, allowing a cream tablecloth to drape over your legs. As you sit down, you feel him tap your shoulder. He’s pointing to a man clad in a striped grey suit, his mask adorned with midnight blue stitching and matching feathers.

It’s your culprit, Francis, as you’ve learned. You don’t intend on allowing him to get away this time.

Patiently, you wait for him to approach you and Neuvillette. You already know he’ll walk up to you with the intention of ensnaring you within his trap. However, you’re two steps ahead in this twisted game of chess.

Sure enough, a grating voice rings out behind you before long.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Predictably, you’re met with the face of your prime suspect as you whip your head around. “And [name].” Right. He knows exactly who you are. Perhaps your imagination is weaving deceptions from preconceived notions, but you swear that you can hear a hint of a sneer in Francis’ words.

He spends some time chatting with Neuvillette, his dialogue consisting of flattery and exaggerated compliments. You’re not sure what your suspect believes he’s accomplishing, but a frown dances across your features as you continue listening in on the conversation. Any average person would be able to detect the deceit in his sickly-sweet tone, so the fact that he’s trying to utilize such a tactic on Neuvillette of all people astounds you.

You can’t help but wince as he makes blunder after blunder, your frustration welling with every sentence that comes out of his mouth. Finally, when it all becomes too much for you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

“Neuvillette, I’m parched,” you complain. “Wanna go get something to drink?” Your own voice makes you cringe. Note to self: learn how to act in a compelling manner if you manage to make it out of this absolute disaster.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately I must remain here. Although tonight is a night of leisure, I still have matters to discuss with certain individuals, and they are expecting me here.” You find it fortunate that Neuvillette’s performance is more convincing than your own, his mannerisms and timbre completely natural.

“Oh, don’t worry about them, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Francis says. “Tell you what. I can bring them over to the drinks table for you and give them a few recommendations. I can promise you that I am an expert when it comes to this kind of stuff. My brother owns a drink company.”

This time you’re sure your mind isn’t distorting reality. The smile that he flashes at you is downright devious, assuring you that Neuvillette had been right about his schemes all along.

You take a deep breath before eagerly accepting his offer.

“Sure. Thank you so much for joining me.”

The walk over is silent, Francis’ bright persona dimming the moment you step away from Neuvillette. Instead, fractals of glacial tension seem to settle over the atmosphere, frosting everything over with a hostile air.

When you reach the beverages, you immediately reach for a cup. However, Francis waves you down.

“Allow me. I insist.” He picks up a cup for you, placing it down in front of the selection of drinks. Before you even have the opportunity to voice your preferences, Francis picks up a bottle, inspecting it thoroughly before unscrewing the lid. “This delightful beverage was produced by my brother. You simply must have a taste.”

For a brief second, Francis obscures your vision of the cup with his back. His hand traces a path to the front pocket of his suit. You know what he’s doing, so you don’t bother attempting to sneak a glance. It’s futile.

As he hands you the drink, you thank him politely. You’re careful not to spill a single drop of the liquid as you make your way back to your seat. When you finally sit down next to Neuvillette again, you continue bantering, each second ticking down and burning away into oblivion. The more time you waste the closer you draw to your goal. People are on their way to test the contents of the spiked beverage at this very moment.

Despite your attempts to simply wait it out, a problem arises when Francis begins to pester you.

“Go ahead,” he urges you. “Try the drink and let me know your opinion. I’m eager to take notes for my brother!”

In response, you shake your head with fervour. Sampling poison is just about the last item on your bucket list. As you continuously refuse, Francis begins to become irritated, his words beginning to crescendo in volume.

Neuvillette’s crystalline lilac gaze begins to grow concerned. Subtle moonbeams glint within his irises, reflecting his worry for your wellbeing. However, his eyes continue to hold an unuttered promise — an oath to ensure that no harm befalls you whatsoever.

That’s what comforts you the most when Francis finally snaps, lunging at you as he jabs a finger into your face. As he begins to speak, his tone is accusatory more than anything.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he snarls. “The two of you,” Francis glances back at Neuvillette, who’s silently watching the entire exchange. “You’re not drinking the beverage because you knew I’d poisoned it all along.”

“Mister Francis, I would advise you to remain silent,” Neuvillette speaks, his tone authoritative. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court of law.”

Unfortunately for Francis, he doesn’t take Neuvillette’s advice seriously. Instead, he’s hellbent on exacting his revenge. You begin to realize his philosophy is one that entails dragging others down with him when he pulls out an enchantingly-gorgeous translucent vial from his pocket.

It’s deceptively beautiful, its design making it seem as though it should contain nothing less than the finest divine nectar. However, you know how deadly the contents of the glass tube really are, and as such, a sense of panic begins to overtake your senses, overwhelming your head with countless scenarios where everything goes horrendously wrong.

Every diverging path vanishes into nothingness the moment Neuvillette steps in. A swift burst of aquatic energy fills your vision, and a cascade of pristine dewy droplets of water splatters your face as you close your eyes. When it’s over at long last, you glance around to find that Francis is on the ground, drenched and shivering as Neuvillette bends down to collect the vial he had been carrying.

“This will make for good evidence,” he notes, setting it down on the table alongside the drink.

It doesn’t take long for your backup to arrive after Neuvillette knocks Francis out. In fact, the timing of the poison-testers is a little too serendipitous to be organic. You’re starting to think that Neuvillette had planned to provoke Francis all along, but you don’t find an opportunity to ask before the team confiscates the drink and the vial to run experiments.

A crowd of onlookers has already begun to congregate, amalgamating in a curious frenzy. Everyone thinks they’re slick, but you can clearly see the way their eyes wander over to Francis’ unmoving form on the ground every so often.

“Follow me,” Neuvillette tells you as he takes off after the forensic team. Someone carries the samples of liquid that have yet to be tested, and a few others grab Francis and haul him off with you. You lose yourself in the winding hallways of the venue, each twist and turn serving only to further discombobulate your frazzled mind.

It feels like forever before you finally reach your destination. It’s quite ordinary in comparison to the sumptuous party occurring outside its doors — each wall a stark and blinding snow white and the lighting sterile and plain.

Francis is set down, and the forensic team promptly begins their investigation. As they labour, you turn to Neuvillette.

“Was it really necessary for you to use so much force when stopping him?” you reprimand him. “I’m grateful, I really am, but I think we attracted a little more attention than we needed.”

Upon hearing your words, Neuvillette chuckles. The sound of his laughter is a sonorous tune that you’ve missed hearing, no matter how much you want to deny it. Your heart races involuntarily.

“I was not intent on leaving your fate up to chance,” he says, sincerity weaving itself into every syllable he speaks. “Although keeping our operation a secret would have been ideal, I wasn’t planning to compromise anyone’s safety in exchange — especially not yours.”

Sometimes you resent Neuvillette for saying the most romantic things without realizing it. Every single rose-tinted word is like a shot to the heart, ensnaring your feelings in crimson threads of love. It’s as if you fall deeper and deeper into oceanic clutches, drowning — suffocating — as the weight of emotions hailing from both the past and present overwhelm you.

“We’re finished,” a member of the team chirps.

You feel the tension in your shoulders alleviate as both you and Neuvillette rush over to take in the results of the investigation.

“The two poison samples match the exact substance that was used all those years ago,” the analyst confirms, presenting you with the conclusions drafted on a sheet of paper. “With all the eyewitness evidence and the fact that he personally confessed to having connections to the very factory that prompted this investigation in the first place, it’s safe to say he won’t be seeing the light of day for a while.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief that you’ve been holding in for weeks. Your name has finally been cleared, and the real threat has been eliminated.

Above all else, justice has prevailed once more.

To your surprise, Neuvillette leads you to the grand stage at the forefront of all the festivities the moment you re-enter the main hall. Despite the pandemonium that had become the most prominent spectacle of the banquet earlier, people have resumed their lighthearted conversations and elegant dancing, swaying to and fro as if the alarming exchange between the Chief Justice and Francis had never occurred in the first place.

As people begin to notice the diminuendo in music and Neuvillette’s presence at the anterior of the room, the chatter gradually begins to die down, diminishing in a steady waning of volume. Eventually, silence consumes all, and you’re reminded of the sheer gravity of the Iudex’s aura alone.

“Greetings, esteemed guests.” The hall amplifies Neuvillette’s voice, each booming word reverberating and echoing off the opulent walls. “I stand before you today to announce a joyous cause for commemoration as well as to clarify the cause behind the commotion that some of you may have witnessed earlier.”

Whispers permeate the crowd as gossip and speculation begin to circulate. However, Neuvillette shuts everything down as he continues.

“The person here by my side today is [name],” gasps ring out in the silence, fragmenting every semblance of false tranquility that exists in the moment. “Yes, the very same [name] that was sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide due to suspected misdemeanours that resulted in an egregious death.”

Protests spread like wildfire through the rambunctious group of people gathered in front of you. Flames of disapproval threaten to engulf your entire being, stinging you with a rutilant aggression as you try to tune out everything.

“Silence,” Neuvillette commands. Thankfully, it’s enough to get everyone to settle down. “I apologize. For the past few weeks, I have concealed the true nature of the situation from you all. A while ago, I personally received a report detailing the suspicious activities of a company producing drinks as a front. Their more sinister schemes laid behind the scenes, as they produced toxins and other deadly substances away from the watchful eyes of the authorities. The composition of the poison they created was identical to that of the weapon used in [name]’s case. With this new evidence, we decided to reopen the investigation.”

Yet again, a shocked reaction is elicited from the crowd, and you begin to wonder how many times they’ll collectively gasp before the end of Neuvillette’s speech.

“When we looked into things more thoroughly, we discovered that the true culprit was Francis, a member of our very own Marechaussee Phantom. At the moment, he has been detained and is currently awaiting trial.”

Relief propagates amongst the crowd, blossoming in a pure flourish of unadulterated solace. A few people look at you with pity, each starlit glint of their eyes conveying their woe on your behalf.

Neuvillette waits this time, allowing the partygoers to mutter amongst themselves. When they begin to settle, he moves on to more positive news.

“I would like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to listen to my rather mundane explanations,” Neuvillette says. “Now for something more lighthearted.”

He gestures for you to take centre stage, and you reluctantly comply, gazing out at the ocean of people surrounding you.

“[Name] has finally been proven innocent, and as such, they will no longer be required to return to the Fortress of Meropide. This feast has been organized in their honour as a celebration of their return as well as an apology for years spent in isolation.”

Chants of your name begin to flood your ears along with cheers and apologies alike. At long last, you’ve been absolved of the burden wrongfully weighing on your shoulders.

“Welcome back,” Neuvillette whispers to you as he intertwines your fingers to help you off stage. “You’re finally home.”

You hum.

“Thank you.”

No one has the ability to predict the future, and fate’s ordainments are always an enigma to even the most omniscient entities that traverse Teyvat. You have no way of knowing how your relationship with Neuvillette will develop with the passage of time — whether it will mend or fade away as the last spotlight upon the very murder case that brought you back together fizzles out. However, you think you’ll take a chance and revel in his proximity for the time being. He’s proven that he still cares immensely over and over again.

Perhaps with enough patience, your seed of hope will bloom and fill the abyss that had once overtaken your heart, transforming it into a garden of romance reborn.

The weight of Neuvillette’s words begins to settle as you realize that yes, you really are home.

Even after a desolate rain of bitterness and sorrow, the feeling of your hand in his is still home — home sweet home.

ITOSHI RIN — JAPANESE COUNTRYSIDE

Rin’s idea of a perfect trip with you rhymes with calm, practical, and smart. Not too far, but still gives the perfect amount of change of scene, it’s clear nothing can beat a nice little ryokan where the sun filters through the window. Plus, the owner, a nice old lady, offered you a traditional teapot from the region!

Her grand-daughter won’t stop running around chasing rom to get him to play with her — he’s asked for your help multiple times already, but you don’t really feel like helping. After all, you’d be lying if you said seeing rin play hide and seek with the little girl didn’t make your heart swell just a tiny bit.

Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that rin hates planes and the airport. He just likes trains better! There’s nothing strange about it, everyone’s got their own tastes, right?

ITOSHI SAE — SPAIN

He supposes he should make you visit the place that’s propelled him into the starting blocks of football’s new generation. And maybe also a few restaurants he’s been to that serves really good meals he thinks you’ll like. There’s also a shopping district full of your favourite brands so just maybe, they’ll make a quick stop there. Oh, and, turns out there’s an exposition going on that shows off a few things you really like, so maybe that too… come on, don’t look at him like that, he didn’t know you wanted to go, he just got the tickets for free from a fan.

Besides, this is only for the second day, your first day here is reserved for the city landmarks, so don’t get too excited just yet, alright?

What? You want to go meet his teammates? Jeez, maybe he should have left you at the airport to fend for yourself after all…

LEONARDO LUNA — BRAZIL

Showing off his altinha skills at the beach to make sure a bunch of girls check him out to make you jealous? Check. Keep going to the point where the jealousy consumes your entire being? Also check. Stare back at the girls so that you can’t help but come up to him and kiss the daylights out of him to keep those girls where they are? Definitely check. Yeah, that’s what he calls a vacation… (Which is not the case for the mothers who are desperately trying to cover their children’s eyes, which eventually makes you draw back and assess the situation you got yourself into)

He eventually feels bad for a little, thinking that maybe, getting you jealous wasn’t the best way to get physical affection from you.

At least that’s what he thought until you decide to go back to the hotel to get ready to go out again, and he gets to watch you carefully apply lipgloss in front of the mirror with your body bent over the sink… Yeah, this is definitely not stopping him from doing this again tomorrow.

MIKAGE REO — MONACO

What else to expect from the one boy who’s literally got money up his ass? Nothing less than the absolute best for you, no sir. Staying at the Ritz just to go ahead and spend lunch at Chez Hortense with an unforgettable beach view at Cap Ferret, go back to Monaco to enjoy the hotel’s private seaside perks and amenities, just to end the day at a bar in St-Raphaël with Reo’s family friends. The life.

You’re exhausted by the time your back hits the premium mattress at a little past midnight, and you wonder if you’re going to have to do all of this again tomorrow.

Then again, if it’s not something you want to follow through with again tomorrow, don’t worry, Reo’s got it all planned out. As much as he likes going out, he’ll order room service to get you eggs Benedict with fresh salmon on the side for lazy mornings, and if you’re not hungry, lounging in the hotel suite the entire day is as much of an option as anything else.

CHIGIRI HYOMA — ITALY

How about a cosy little Airbnb for this one? Chigiri is definitely naturally irritable, so a tourist hotspot or a busy city is out of the question. Torino landscapes and a nice breakfast made up of the groceries you gathered on a hurry before closing time yesterday definitely make up for a better vacation than he could ever imagine.

Hair care dates in northern Italy surrounded by plaids and pillows sounds like the quite the dream, no? Hair oils and lengthening treatments, masks and scalp protecting creams scattered around the floor, and you feel that somehow, you must’ve died, because how else did you get to paradise?

Eventually, these sessions will be followed up by an outing in the old city center to eat up some of the best pasta in the city (and show off your hair— but neither of you will admit to that).

author’s note part 2 as I said, summer has been crazy for me and I literally did not have time to check in 🥹 sorry for that! I will try to be more active but as you probably know, uni has just started again… anyways, enjoy!!

what do you have that makes you so irresistible? Satoru is unsure, of course he’s seen you before, you were just a year younger and meeting you in the corridors was not unusual, sharing one or two chit chats along the way, perhaps casually helping you catch a book you couldn’t reach, you know, all things a friend does.

when did these feelings start to get worse?

used to the constant attention from all his classmates, Satoru was not the one to suddenly catch feelings, charismatic and kind is what he was, yet never felt anything towards everyone’s constant praising, why did he want to hear you praising him?

“you both are the worst”

“hm” Suguru hums, sitting next to his best friend who has an elbow on the table and his cheek resting on his palm, “you’re acting like a creep”

an exaggerated gasp comes out of Satoru’s lips, a bit of a relief considering it’s not yet another sigh, “i am not a creep!” he exclaims, hand on his chest as if his best friend just wounded his ego, even though the pose mimicked one of a gossiping victorian lady.

“yes you are, you’ve been staring at them for so long”

“my eyes happen to be in that same direction”

Shoko hums in the back, not believing a word.

“if you like them so much why don’t you just talk to them?” Suguru asks, chin propped up in his hand with a knowing soft smile.

“i don’t—”

a muffled bunch of giggles cut his words, blue eyes immediately landing back to the group of girls that approached him, all blushing and twirling their hair, “Satoru... can you help us with the decorations for the festival?” one of them asks, with wide grins and standing right in the front, obviously the leader.

Satoru hesitates, turning to look at you again but just finding the spot where you previously sat now empty, as if you held the answer.

the ninth sigh of the day, “sure”

you’re usually not the type of person to jolt up in any slightly scary situation, but finding Gojo Satoru’s face right next to yours as soon as you close the shoes locker was not expected.

he does not mention it, what a gentleman, keeping a wide grin on his face, “hi” sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, “need some help with that?” the blue eyed points at your feet and you raise a brow, looking down at the quite small bag of books you held.

“i’m fine, thank you” and if you see a pair in the farthest back, a black haired one and a brunette giggling among themselves you don’t mention it either.

“right” a slight blush coats his cheeks and looks down, resting his arm above the surface of the lockers, “so um, did you hear about the festival?”

“oh, yeah” you say, finishing to place your shoes in the locker, “i saw you helping the student committee”

wait, did you? what did you see? he wasn’t overly friendly with those girls, were he? no of course not, he’s used to the compliments and attention, but he never reciprocates any flirting, are you aware of that? what do you think of h—

“i’m quite excited” your voice pulls Satoru out of his stupor, “the gym was looking nice”

the gym..., “right! the gym, of course, not to brag but I helped a lot” he winks.

you laugh at that, and he goes speechless, mouth drying and brain stopping at the sight of your smiling face so close, have you always been so good looking...?

“do you want to come with me?” he blurts before he can even process the words, coming up his stomach and pouring out his mouth.

“to the festival?” a hint of hesitation flashes through your eyes, and Satoru’s heart clenches, “sure, I’d like that” and suddenly he does not want to disappear anymore.

“great, see you around” thanking his extremely long legs, the white haired is quick to make an exit before his heart explodes, dragging Shoko and Suguru who were still 'hiding' in a corner.

“you do know you have to wear the uniform, don’t you?” Shoko explodes Satoru’s desperation bubble with just a few words, turning to stare at his friend casually laying on his bed while playing with the dark pair of sunglasses.

“why didn’t you say that before?!” he hisses, still holding the two shirts he was previously attempting to pick in front of the mirror, “did you know about that too?” he acuses Suguru now.

the black haired laughs and raises his hands in feign innocence, “you never asked”

this time instead of counting sighs, they count how many shirts and pants Satoru pulled out of his never ending closet, rich family issues.

and right when it looked like the blue eyed was about to open another secret closet, Shoko decided to stop this never ending torture, “i can’t believe you’re my friends” he fakes a dramatic sigh and plops on the floor, somehow relieved that he didn’t have to decide what to wear for your non date.

“are you excited for your date?”

“it’s not a date!”

he was, indeed, excited, palms sweating while looking through the crowd of people gathering at the school backside where the festival was taking place, giving a few hello’s to everyone who stopped to talk or flirt, the usual.

and then he saw you, heart racing when you give him another of those beautiful smiles of yours, the ones that make him wish to kneel and pop the question, even if he was barely 18, he did not care.

“you look beautiful” you looked the same as ever, but to Satoru you looked perfect every single day.

a soft chuckle comes out of you, “thank you, you too” and he blushes again, eyes locked on you, ignoring completely the smug faces of his best friends, again, staring in the back.

and how Satoru wished it was just the both of you walking through the multiple stands, without any distraction of the people who greeted him, can’t anyone see he’s busy with you?!

although you don’t mind, or you don’t show it, but when the sun starts to set and the crowd starts to disperse he guides you to a bench away from the people, an arm casually draped over your shoulders from hours ago when he pretended to yawn.

“i want to tell you something” he starts, eyes locked on the mochi in your hands that you unwrap and guide to his mouth, making Satoru's eyes widen but quickly chew it down without trying to make you eat it, “i, um, I want to say I like you, a lot, and maybe... do you want to have a date with me?”

a very soft smile places on your lips, looking up at him, “wasn’t this a date?”

“i- i mean, well, it could... it could be if—!”

your finger on his lips quickly shuts him down, and honestly, what kind of power do you have to be able to shut him with a simple touch? “i’d love to go out with you, but I have a question”

“yes?”

“will your friends also come with us?”