all is well.

You try to keep your head up high when a Gestionarre reads your sentence to you once more and confirms your information for records, you really do. “You will not be allowed to leave the Fortress of Meropide for the duration of your sentence. You will not be permitted to bring items inside with you. Your sentence may be extended for the duration it takes to pay off your fines.” Her cold eyes bore unflinchingly into yours. “You will leave by this elevator in ten years’ time, should your debt be paid.”

Ten years. Ten years for daring to prevent another crime, for believing that that sniveling coward of a man would make good on the promises he’d been leaving your friend for years and choosing to protect her dignity at the cost of his (not that he had much. He was pathetic and afraid, always harming her in private while pretending to be the kind of man your parents would want you to bring home). You scoff. Your handcuffs are tugged harshly at the sound before you’re dragged into the center of the elevator platform. The sun burns your eyes as you look up at the bright blue sky, perfectly clear. The Hydro Dragon would not cry for you. The brightness stings, but you stubbornly look upwards until the musky gloom of the Fortress envelops you and you’re dragged forward to a desk in a line of other prisoners, uncuffed, and promptly left alone as the Garde hurries back above ground like the air itself would taint them.

That was fine. It was silence you desperately needed. A break from the chatter that questioned your morals—morals you knew were strong in their convictions and actions you would, should you need to, repeat again. Even the stagnant air of the Fortress warns of its unchanging state, mildew that must have never been cleaned mixing with metallic acridity. Fitting, for prisoners, you supposed. To have a sensory experience that assaulted the senses at worst and provided nothing but the bare minimum at best. A punishment, in its own right, to compliment the sentence the Oratrice handed to everyone this deep below the sea.

The receptionist is an older woman, privileged to live a life so long that the joints of her hand have begun to stiffen. That’s the main thing you notice, signaled as she grips the pen to fill out your forms with more force than something so flimsy needed. How terrible, you think, lips pressing into a thin line, to live so long and see and do so much, only to spend your days in such a dank tunnel, writing down the information of Fontaine’s worst.

You wonder how often she sees the sun.

“Name?” She glances up at you. 

“__,” you provide, and you spell it, too. You can’t help your curiosity, and as she starts an obviously practiced spiel about where to go and what to do next, interrupt “do you miss the sun?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The sunlight.” There’s restless movement behind you, other new inmates wondering what’s taking you so long. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?”

She smiles at you, and it feels like pity. “I do.” Places her pen down, shuffles your papers into an orderly stack, clips them, and drops them into a chute just behind her desk. “Next.”

–——–

The next thing of note that happens in the Fortress, other than the first night you spend without a wink of sleep, anxiously jolting at the sound of footsteps around you and the tiny bit of dignity you could still cling to (the new clothing tucked into the dingy trunk at the end of your stiff cot, and the bracelet your friend had given you they’d forgotten to take off your wrist), is the entry of a new inmate a bit over a month after you arrived.

New prisoners come in daily, like clockwork, just another cog in the machine of Meropide’s production. But there’s a buzz around this one, snippets of giddy conversation that felt like being transported back into the Opera Epiclese. 

“I heard he killed his parents! Could you imagine the sight of them?” and “must be an ungrateful brat” and even, “he must be quite strong, then. To kill two so young. Let’s invite him to spar.” It seemed like every inmate you happened across, whether during work or meals or down time, had some form of moral judgment to pass disguised as curiosity directed towards a man who, for all intents and purposes, was just like any of them. A criminal found guilty in the eyes of Fontaine’s courts.

It was interesting, you supposed. Parricide. The whispers of his sentencing made it evident he was young, though that could be gleaned from the leniency of his sentence alone. But it also made people curious—when he was on that stand, blinded by spotlights and surrounded by the buzz of gossip passed behind palms, was there unrest? A genuine uncertainty that brought to light some question of innocence and whether or not punishment was needed? If remediation could be enough? Some form of debate about whether or not his parents deserved it flitted into every conversation for days, despite barely anyone having laid eyes upon him. Just the paperwork that signed away his fate and went into the same chute as anyone else’s. 

It was ridiculous.

You were all in prison. How could any of you claim to be better? All of you had reasons, excuses, a tale you could recite as easily as breathing—some form of conviction and belief in yourself that justified why you were thrown into the Fortress. What gave any of you the right to question his life, his story, his actions? Would it even matter if you knew why? If he had a reason. Would it make it right? More interesting? Or was all the talk just a means to justify the snap judgments the headline alone made?

–——–

The grimy fluorescent lights of the infirmary are not among your favorite things to wake up to. In the bottom five, even. While they were once bright, dust and debris had filtered them to a hazy yellow that, when paired with the head nurse’s meals, was truly horrifying.

You shift, attempting to sit up, and a wave of nausea surges through you, strong enough you groan softly. When you can finally blink away the heaviness to your eyes, you spot another inmate on a cot nearby. He looks to be about your age, with a streak of blood on his shirt sleeve—and, upon closer inspection, Sigewinne appears to be giving him stitches right below the stain. There’s dirt on his cheek and a crooked smile that seems rather out of place for the scolding he’s getting (“you’ve got a death wish, picking a fight with someone so much bigger than you! Do you want to see how many stitches someone can have at once?” and a disapproving click of her tongue). 

You’ve never heard her be so fed up.

It takes effort to turn into a more comfortable position, but you do, snickering when you hear him—“bigger they are, harder they fall, right? I’d take a few stitches in exchange for justice any day.”

Sigewinne hums and finally closes up the wound. She levels him an unimpressed stare “do not move, Wriothesley. I’m going to get some ingredients for an ointment that you will put on as it heals.” She doesn’t seem to notice you’ve woken up as she bustles out of the room, though you’re fine with that. Having her undivided attention is a guarantee you’ll be nagged so thoroughly it’d put generations of mothers to shame.

Slowly, you sit up. Your gaze keeps drifting to the boy—Wriothesley, you suppose—he’s rather scrawny looking, like someone not quite done growing into their frame. There’s a nasty scar on his neck and chest, one that makes you inhale sharply at the sight. It’s a dark mark you can tell will never fade, from the jagged edges of discoloration and the way it’s not flush with the skin. Healed enough to be done healing, but not enough to ever be a mark he could forget. 

“Why are you staring?”

You flinch slightly, taken aback by him suddenly addressing you. “No reason,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the ground as embarrassment rushes through you. His voice is steady for the amount of stitching you saw, betraying no pain. How much has he gone through? You wonder, frowning, that this is nothing to him? 

Your curiosity has always been one of your bigger flaws. You never know when to drop things.

You blurt out “who’d you pick a fight with?” before sense can catch up to you. Thankfully, Wriothesley seems amused, snorting at the question and how your hand slaps to cover your mouth.

“No one important,” he drawls, and there’s a lilt to his voice that betrays that he must be smiling. “Just some asshole shaking down new inmates. Thinks he’s all that.”

It takes a second to register, mind racing through possibilities. And then, “you picked a fight with Dimitri?” You finally look back at him, reassessing his strength. “Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. He deserved it. He thinks he’s special, that he’s all that. He’s just a coward.”

“It still looks like he got you pretty good.”

Wriothesley shrugs, though the movement is stiff on the injured arm. “He looks worse than I do. Sigewinne didn’t even need to numb it.”

“She didn’t?” The blood soaking through the fabric makes the wound look pretty sizable.

“I told her not to,” he supplies softly. “There’s no need.”

“Not hurting is a pretty good reason.”

His expression is stormy when you look at him—there’s a hardness to his eyes and the slant of his pressed lips that give you pause. His silence is worse—all you can hear is the buzz of machinery in the air, the hum of the fluorescent lights and distant clanks of metal down in the production zone. The stale air of the infirmary has never been more oppressive than the way the words sit.

Finally, he sighs. He looks at you, unreadable, and gives a small, soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hurting is inevitable.”

You can’t press him on it. You didn’t have a right to, but even if you did, Sigewinne had just returned with hurried instructions for her nurse of the day and her hands full. She finishes up with him quickly, sending him off with an earful about picking better battles and how she’ll know if he doesn’t use the ointment, and she’ll track him down herself to put it on if he doesn’t. He’d laughed easily and dodged her out the door like it was a daily occurrence.

“__,” Sigewinne turns to you and you stiffen, smiling apologetically at the stern look on her face. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “No need to be sheepish.” She hands you a painkiller and some water and hums when you take them. “But working all day and night won’t get you out of here any faster.”

“I know…” you mumble, setting the glass down on the bedside table.

“Then stop doing it,” she pleads. “Resting will mean better work. And better days. That’s better than getting out with injuries from your impatience.”

You huff. “I’m not injured.” It falls flat when you’re in the infirmary and had to be brought in by other inmates that’d found you alone in the tunnels you were welding, with gear scattered haphazardly around your slumped figure and soot along your cheeks. “Fine. I’ll be better.”

“I will personally make sure of that, too.” Sigewinne squints at you. “You may go.”

–——–

Debt was one of the worse sentences the Oratrice could give. Going under the tide was expected if you were found guilty, but with how the Fortress ran solely on Credit Coupons (which seemed to have market fluctuations based on the administrator’s whims), any effort towards paying off your sentence would be foiled by having to pay for the bare necessities. Hungry? Need new bedding? You had to pay for it with the Coupons earned from your labor.

You were faced with this again, knuckles whitening as you tightly grip the flimsy plastic tray and stare down at the small, sloppily wrapped sandwich—the cling wrap has gaps, the bread’s gone stale, and the cook stares back at you. Not without sympathy, but not enough to sneak something else to you across the counter. “Costs went up again. This is what the minimum gets today.”

“Thanks…” you say. You try to smile at the guy working. He’s nice enough. You know it doesn’t meet your eyes.

You’re about to turn and sit to choke it down when someone behind you speaks.

“I’ll cover a bit more. Add a few sides.”

When you turn, you’re met with the boy—Wriothesley, you remind yourself—from the infirmary. He regards the cook steadily, expression unreadable. He jerks his chin slightly, and suddenly, the cook scrambles to action and places a decent looking salad and what appears to be some snacks next to the sandwich.

Wriothesley tosses a bundle of Coupons without glancing at or counting the amount. “That’s enough for mine and hers.”

You regard him with suspicion. He’s rocking on his heels casually; hands stuck back into his pockets as he waits.

“I was fine, you know.”

His brow raises. “Do you not want it?”

That makes you deflate a little, sighing heavily. It takes a lot to swallow your pride, but you’ve been hungry all week—it’s gnawed at you, and you’ve gotten close to fainting too many times in the production zone. “No, I’ll… I’ll take it. Thank you.”

He grabs his food when it’s placed with a thud on the counter. His eyes narrow at the cook, and it sends a chill down your spine. When you glance down at the tray, it’s filled with food. More than you’ve seen in a bit. Then, you notice there’s raw, broken skin on his knuckles—red, angry, almost splitting with his grip.

“What happened to your hands?”

He looks down at them, like it’s surprising you’d even ask. “Boxing.”

Wriothesley offers nothing more.

When he turns on his heel to walk away, you stop him to hand him a small bit of scrap you’d pocketed from your welding jobs. It’s not much, just metal too warped or thin to work for walls and rivets, and pieces too small for the guards to notice. There’s what looks like burns along his arms, the same kind you’d seen when he was getting stitched. You’d burnt yourself enough in the tunnels that you know how metalworking marks the skin.

He accepts them.

–——–

There’s been a fighting ring in the Fortress for a bit. It’s definitely not official—the participants scatter the second the buzz of a radio on a guard’s hip draws a bit too near to the abandoned tunnel. It’s interesting though. You’re not a fighter, never have been, but it’s easy to consider the betting as a way to make Coupons.

Of course, you know gambling isn’t a good idea. But, in theory, it makes you feel hopeful. So, you end up in that damp, wide, unfinished tunnel today, eyeing two fighters surrounded by a ring of clamoring inmates.

It seems like you’re late to place bets.

You can’t see the fighters—the throng of the crowd is too thick to see through. But you can hear the scrape of metal on metal and hissing elemental energy that seeps outwards as vapor. It doesn’t take long for a victory to be decided; evident by the thud of a body falling and cheers filling the area.

Credit Coupons trade hands swiftly. Everyone disperses even faster.

One of the fighters remains. It’s not shocking that it’s Wriothesley. There’s a bit of blood trickling down his jaw from a small nick, and his chest is heaving from the exertion. He has gauntlets on his hands, with gears ticking and what looks like Cryo crystallizing along the edges. His wrists roll uncomfortably as he is handed a sizable pouch of Coupons from the referee.

You regard the drops of blood speckling the floor, and the elemental residue for a moment more. Then, you turn on your heel and follow behind Wriothesley, a few feet behind. You follow quietly behind him right until the opening of the tunnel. His shoulders are still tense, and he moves cautiously.

When you catch up and go to walk out, he spins and pins you to a wall in just two seconds. Your breath hitches, and your eyes dart from his furrowed brow down to the hand pressed against your throat. It looks like he recognizes you, because the pressure lessens, but he keeps you trapped.

“If you wanted to sneak up on me, you should walk quieter.”

“I didn’t want to,” you croak out, pressing your head backwards to breathe a little easier.

“Then what?” Wriothesley huffs.

“Your hands—” you inhale sharply when he presses a little more. “I have more scrap. For your gauntlets, right?”

Wriothesley drops his hands to his side. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“—and I can walk quietly!”

He laughs at your indignance. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

You sigh, relieved, when he steps back further. “Yeah. I won’t be slandered.”

Wriothesley tilts his head at you. “You’re an odd one. Fine, I’ll barter for your scrap.” He begins walking down the hall and you scurry to follow him and fall in step. “What would you like for it? Potions?”

“I was thinking more… we look out for each other?” Your voice softens nervously. “It’s good to have someone on your side down here.”

There’s a pause as he considers it. “Sure.”

–——–

It becomes a habit to find him after his fights and help fix up his gauntlets after that.

He’s been here—you’ve been here—for about three years now. It’s nice to have someone to trust, even more so when it’s someone as strong as Wriothesley.

He’s grown into his frame and strength now. He’s not lanky anymore, instead stacked with corded, functional muscles. Taller, too, and broad. Everything about his posture and form screams how strong he is. You think he probably doesn’t even need the gauntlets anymore. The callouses on his hands and the force his punches pack would be enough to knock almost anyone flat on their backs.

Wriothesley is normally quiet during repairs. The machinery is small and difficult to work with, and his hands don’t fit in as well as they used to (you’d learnt he made them initially at fourteen, and that made the crude welding much more understandable. He’s far too skilled and in control to make such sloppy welds now).

You’re better at it than he is, carefully reinforcing a segment with slow, steady hands.

“Why do you still use these?” You ask when you pause to inspect them, sitting up and giving your aching back a break from the way you hunch over the work. “You don’t really need them anymore.”

He hums, sliding the gauntlets into his palms and checking the work. He seems pleased by the small smile on his lips. “They make me stronger. Why not?”

“You wouldn’t need to scrounge for scrap is all,” you mumble, setting all his tools back. “And you’re not afraid of stitches. What’s a few more in your hands going to do?”

Wriothesley laughs at that, free and happy. It makes you grin, too.

“Why get them, though? It lets me use Cryo and it makes the fights faster. Very efficient.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I guess… if you ever leave them in here, I’ll chase off any would-be thieves.”

“You’re not much of a fighter though, are you?”

“I’m not,” you admit. You were only down here because you defended your friend. As protective as you were, you were rash. You’d come to realize Wriothesley wasn’t that quick to anger, and you envied the trait. He was strong, and he was calculated. If anything riled you up enough, it was normally too late to think it through, which being friends with him had made very evident.

“Well,” he says dryly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think I’m a better guard dog than you.”

When you huff dramatically, he just rolls his eyes with a smile.

–——–

You earn most of your Coupons in the production zone. It felt wrong to bet on Wriothesley—like you were cheating, almost. Of course, the other inmates bet on friends and rigged things, but you had several more years to go. You might as well work to make the time pass.

Wriothesley visits sometimes. When you’ve been forging so long, you can’t wipe the sweat off your brow before more forms, and when you can barely maintain your grip on your tools.

“What do you want to get with all your Coupons?” You ask him. He’s leaning against a wall a few feet away and watching you work—he’ll at least carry the finished rivets to the guard managing the area for you, speeding up your process a little. “You have a lot now, right?”

“I do,” he agrees. It’s nice that he doesn’t rub it in. You don’t know how much he has now, and you think finding out would crush your spirit.

“Do you just want to be rich?” You’re a bit woozy when you straighten and breathe in shakily. The air is stagnant and heavy, and it takes a moment to breathe normally again. “Start with taking over my shifts.”

Wriothesley snorts. “You could just stop taking them. Go place bets. Hell, maybe you could fight in the matches.”

“And get my face folded in?” You scowl at him.

He laughs, and, when the guard isn’t looking, finishes hammering out your last six rivets. He makes it look effortless.

“Maybe you’d be good.” Wriothesley shrugs. “Order. I want to buy order.”

“How do you plan on buying a concept?” You put back the tools and gather all your rivets. He falls into step with you. “Doesn’t seem like something a merchant of smuggled goods can stock.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, arms crossing over his chest. You watch the movement of muscle with rapt attention for a moment before turning away to turn in your work. “But I can buy a chance to make it happen. Make it so people pretend they didn’t see anything.” There’s a certainty to Wriothesley’s voice that intrigues you, but right now you’re too hungry to care.

“Well, restructuring a prison you’re an inmate in seems difficult. Regardless of how rich you are. You can start with buying me lunch.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “Are you always this greedy?”

You shrug. “Will you buy it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

–——–

The steam rising off the tea is a novel sight. It’d been a long time since you had any warm drink, and much less one imported. Wriothesley had chided you for the purchase, but you were firmly of the belief that you should still have small joys in your life, even when you’re well under the sea. 

You had caught him in the cafeteria earlier, told him with bright eyes and slightly warm cheeks that you had tea—from Liyue, and a new blend at that—if he’d like to come try it.

It surprises you when he shows up. It shouldn’t, but it does. His gauntlets are off, perhaps in his dormitory, and his hair looks damp. He’s rather unguarded and domestic in a way that makes your pulse flutter. When he sits next to you, you finally break the silence with a soft, almost shy “you can pick first.” He’s smiling freely as he spins the mug around and studies it. Inhales. Sighs out happily, humming at the aroma and the warmth on his fingers as he lifts it. By the way his brows raise and the corner of his mouth lilts, it’s a good blend and steeped well. That makes you happy.

“It’s delicious,” he mumbles, leaning his head back on the edge of your cot. You lean down and grab your own before resting back on the wooden frame, studying his expression. “It was an irresponsible purchase. But… an enjoyable one, I must admit.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Must you chide me now? Just enjoy it.”

He shrugs and smiles at you. “I am enjoying it and chiding you,” he chuckles, savors another sip. “I’m capable of multitasking.”

The silence over the pair of you is comfortable. He seems softer than normal and, after a few minutes, your curiosity (nosiness, you can hear his voice in your head, you’re just nosy!) gets the better of you. “Why are you so happy today?”

Wriothesley makes a noncommittal noise. “Can I not be?” Your exasperated sigh and silence are answer enough. “It’s… my birthday,” he says finally, setting his empty mug down where he won’t accidentally knock it over. “I know this is by no means a birthday present, but it was… pleasant. To have this day be marked by a nice present.”

“Oh,” you gasp, and there’s a bit of shame that flickers through you for not knowing it was his birthday. “Happy birthday, Wriothesley,” and then, almost as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re spending it with me.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “I spend a lot of days with you,” he reminds. “This one is no more special.”

“It is!” You insist, sliding onto the floor before shuffling closer to him. “It’s your birthday. And, sure, I didn’t know it was”—he looks at you, amused and mischievous, and you make a face back before continuing—“but I’m happy that we got to enjoy an imported tea on your birthday. Birthdays should be pleasant.”

He nods. “They should, I suppose,” he leans against you a little, and your skin prickles with warmth where you’re pressed flush against him. “They aren’t always. But this one is,” he studies you. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

You giggle and he scoffs when you sing-song “oh, so you like me!” You sober a little bit, tone dropping to be more sincere. “I’m glad you do like me though, you know. It took a lot of time and effort to do that. I’m happy to have that confirmation.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Surely, you must know I like you. With the amount of time I spend with you, it’d be crazy if I somehow didn’t.” It’s so not romantic, it’s just… Wriothesley, straightforward and simple and teasing. No laced meaning. But your mind races and imagines him saying he likes you in a far different way. 

He sighs softly, getting more comfortable (as much as you can on a floor made of warped, cold metal dotted with huge, poorly done rivets). You drink him in, gaze flitting from the strength of his brow, to the way the amber lamplight looks like stained glass where it reflects in his eyes, the bend in his nose (caused by a poorly set fix after a fight, you’re sure). The angle of his jaw, and the dark shadow of stubble that dots over it. His hair, with small gray streaks that he’s gotten during his time here (you know he did not have them when you first met; you’re quite sure you’d remember if he did), falling loosely over his face and frizzing slightly as it dries.

“How old are you now?” You ask abruptly when you’re suddenly aware of how shamelessly you’ve been admiring him. You hope he is too tired to notice the weight of your stare.

He looks at you, eyes heavy and sleepy, and you know him well enough to tell the tiredness of the day has caught up to him at this point—and yet he humors you anyways. “Twenty-one,” he seems to be thinking through the timeline for a moment, wading through the endlessly recursive days he’s spent in the Fortress. “I’ve been in here for exactly five years now.”

“You were admitted on your birthday?” It’s upsetting, knowing that his birthday was the day he was found guilty and brought in. It’s no wonder he doesn’t find it pleasant, you think, frowning at his words, to have your birthday just be a reminder of how much time you’ve spent down here.

Wriothesley nods. “It’s alright. I’m guilty of the crime, after all. I know what I did to be here.” He brushes his hair back out of his eyes and sighs. “It’s just like any other day.”

Worst of all, you know he means that. His birthday is nothing to be celebrated and certainly shouldn’t overshadow the things he did—where it’s just a day, with the good and bad cancelling each other out. Where his birthday was nothing to be celebrated when compared to any other day. “I heard some of the guards mention it was snowing,” you say softly, studying his expression. “Maybe one birthday soon you’ll get to enjoy it.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not a big fan of snow anyways, it’s not the cold I prefer.” That wording gives you pause. What does he prefer then? Cryo? Hydro? Or is he just talking about cold refreshments, like ice cream or a drink with several ice cubes? It’s not anything worth dwelling on, just a subtle ache from the gaps in your knowledge. You want to know him so much better than you do. “Long time until I get out, anyways. The weather the Court gets right now is of no interest to me.”

“Long time?” You hazily remember his sentencing from the talk when he entered the Fortress five years ago, but not well. Just that it was lenient in many people’s eyes.

“Seven more years,” he chuckles. “It’s alright. I’ll enjoy the sunshine in seven years’ time, and I’ll appreciate the snow from behind a window.”

You snort. “Yeah?”

Wriothesley grins, boyish and gentle, before whispering a soft “yeah.” He looks happy, carefree, for a moment. His smile is a little crooked, and there’s a dimple under his lips you’ve never noticed before. Achingly, he looks like the boy—man, now, you suppose—he is. The sight of him makes you wish that kameras were something allowed in the prison, and that you could afford one. You want to immortalize the crinkle to his eyes and the scrunch of his nose. 

It fades quickly, though, and you hope your mental snapshot will do it justice. He sombers some, shoulders dropping. “I miss it,” he admits. “The sun. Sometimes, when…” he pauses, weighing his words. You wish he wouldn’t, so eager to hear his unfiltered thoughts. “Sometimes, I go by the intake desks and the elevator to watch the searchlights sweeping the waters outside,” he admits. “I imagine it’s the sunlight filtering through, that the rays could reach us down here. It makes it a whole lot brighter.”

You chew your lip and nod. “I miss the warmth, too,” you tell him, and he seems relieved to hear it. “I have seven more to go too—I mean, not on paper. It’s something like four. But we both know my debt won’t be paid off by then,” you draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. You feel his stare and glance away, voice cracking as you whisper, “I don’t know if I’m ever getting out of here.” The sting of tears takes a lot of effort to blink back, and you tense slightly as his hand comfortingly rubs your shoulder. How embarrassing. “The current administrator… he keeps… I don’t know, I guess he just wants us down here forever and fuck with us, the bastard. Every time it seems like my debt is shrinking, the number of Coupons you can earn and their value gets lower, or interest on the debt gets higher. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the sun again.” There’s a lump in your throat when you finally stop speaking, and no amount of swallowing it down or rubbing your face makes it stop. 

“He’ll be stopped one day,” Wriothesley resolutely tells you. 

You laugh, a broken, watery sound that tears its way out. “How can you be so sure?”

“I plan to make sure of it,” he shifts, then rises. “One day. When I can buy that order I’ve always wanted.” You roll your eyes in an effort to be playful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ll get out some day. We both will.” He promises, and you shiver as callused fingers shift some fine hairs off your temple. “Goodnight, __. Thank you for the tea.”

–——–

By the time Wriothesley has gathered more Coupons and established his name, you’ve been in there for eight years. It’s obvious you won’t be out when your ten years end—you can’t pay off the fine. But you do enjoy more luxuries than you had more in your youth.

Wriothesley is generous, and kind, and will cover smaller purchases or meals for you. Or, at least, your version of Wriothesley is.

He’s notorious. Other inmates don’t remember the crime that landed him in here, and, honestly, you don’t either. But they speak of his strength and his ruthlessness in the ring; of his wealth and their ideas of his plans for it all; and they speak of him as an opponent. To be talked about and to be known is to have power, at least among the inmates. The guards don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You all get the same disdain.

It means he’s challenged often. Now, the referee and ringleader of the underground fights has caught the two of you in an isolated bit of the dormitory floor, where no one walks by. Étienne had grown frustrated by his continuous success. It’s a known secret he rigged the betting. If Wriothesley participates, those attempts fail.

“If you ever step foot in my arena again,” he sneers at Wriothesley, hands balling into fists at his side. “I’ll make sure you can’t ever again.”

Wriothesley raises his brows and smiles. You scoff, eyes flickering between the two of them. Étienne is no match for Wriothesley, and you both know it. He’s a bit scrawny and a coward to boot—reliant on people he’s paid to stand by him, and he lets their fists do the talking for him. He’s alone in this confrontation, and you wonder how he gained the confidence to do it.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who ended up underground for fraud,” you say. It’s kind of fun to see his attention dart suddenly to you and the lazy roll of your eyes. “Very bold of you to talk so much shit. Don’t you know both of us are in here for more violent offenses?”

You slide off of the box you were sitting on, and he falters, mouth opening and closing on an argument he can’t form. You circle him—it’s funny, really. Your crime was not that violent. Aggravated assault, sure, but it was on a coward of man who raped your friend, and you’d waited to catch him off-guard. You weren’t the type to win in a heads-on confrontation.

But Étienne doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to. His focus remains on Wriothesley even as you keep talking and sizing him up because he is the much more obvious threat.

“I mean, look at you. No scars, no fights won against anyone worth their salt… you’re kinda scrawny, aren’t you? That’s why you hire those guys… your muscle. The bite to your bark. Do you think you could take him?”

Wriothesley is smiling. You can see in his eyes that he’s amused by you and the bravado, but you imagine it’s much scarier if you don’t know him. Like he’s smiling at the idea of knocking you out.

“It’d probably be cathartic for him to go all out, you know? Fight someone without holding back?”

Étienne steps back.

Wriothesley cracks his knuckles, and you watch Étienne flinch, pausing in his slow, steady retreat like a deer in headlights as he says, “Word of advice? Pick battles you can win. If you’re weak, you can’t be a fool, too.”

–——–

At some point, Wriothesley finally started getting the guards to turn a blind eye. It’s been three years since he told you of his plans for order. You’d joked about his certainty he’ll create a new, sure, but you can truly see the respect he’s earned by now.

The administrator’s hand has slipped a bit by now, and his corruption has grown more evident in the way he adjusts Credit Coupon values to his will. He’d even begun to lay off longtime guards and all the support staff Sigewinne had in the infirmary.

Inevitably, understandably, they began to chafe under his tight grasp.

Wriothesley was well-mannered and likable. But more importantly, confident enough to push back and force change—even in things as small as making food more affordable and having a basic need for living met, regardless of the hours you put into the Production Zone. You hadn’t gone hungry in a while.

The guards ignored anything he stirred up. Hell, you’d even caught snippets of conversation, during long nights of working on and welding tunnels, where they rooted for him over their boss.

He’s finally lessened the amount of fighting he does, too. If he is ever in the ring, the knock of his knuckles against jaw or ribs and the dark bruises blooming is enough to earn respect. The gauntlets are primarily retired, a bit too stiff and old to function as well as they used to.

You plan on upgrading them for him some day.

He’ll use it if he must, leaving nicks in the skin from metal on opponents who pushed their luck too far. Sometimes, he’ll even Cryo the enemy—which was a shock for you the first time you witnessed it, just a few minutes ago.

“You have Cryo potions?” It was still simmering in the air above Dimitri’s unconscious frame. You backed away without meaning to, attempting to avoid the chill nipping at your arms. “I thought no one smuggled them anymore?”

Wriothesley rolls his shoulder and wrists, and then he slips off the gauntlets. “No one does.”

“Then—”

“A Vision.” Wriothesley nudges Dimitri with his boot and sighs. He stoops to lift him, shifting the weight easily. “We have to bring him to the infirmary.”

You frown. “Someone will find him, surely.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I've never tested what Cryo does to someone if you leave it on their flesh. I don’t particularly care to test it.”

The mental image of it eating his skin makes you flinch. You gather his gauntlets and follow him. It’s not really surprising he has a Vision—he’s exactly the type the gods would smile upon. Strong. A sense of justice. Triumphant in the face of hardship.

You wonder why the Hydro Archon never smiled upon him. Did she have a premonition of his crimes?

“When did you get it?” You ask softly, once you’ve drawn near to the infirmary and he shifts the weight to better climb the stairs.

“My birthday,” he laughs bitterly. “A lot tends to happen on it for me, huh?”

“A Vision is a blessing, at least.”

Wriothesley hums. “It might be. But it also marks what I had to live through. It’s neither good nor bad.” He sets Dimitri on a bed. Sigewinne will find him eventually. “But it is useful in times like these.”

–——–

Wriothesley is anxious. He shouldn’t be—asking for favors beyond the scope of what prisoners are meant to have access to and paying in Credit Coupons has long since been standard in the Fortress. He wasn’t even asking for contraband, like some of the tougher, older inmates who used their money and connections to sneak in potions and weapons to keep people in check and feel more powerful than they were.

He was asking the cafeteria’s cook to make cupcakes.

The cook had agreed readily, making cakes that were shockingly nice (the cook was skilled—Wriothesley had just accepted that food in the underworld tended to be dry and the ingredients able to be used were always subpar produce, cuts of meat, or sent in such small quantities that they weren’t able to make a dish excellent) and giving him a frosting bag that looked small in his hand. It was hard to use for that reason, but Wriothesley also just… didn’t have a talent for cake decoration. At least, that was his conclusion when he finished frosting all six, where it slid onto the sides and made such messy spirals; he didn’t think you could tell that they were meant to be spirals.

It was for a small thing, too—another reason his nerves felt ridiculous. Your sentence, the ten years spent below the sea, was ending that day. Wriothesley had wanted to celebrate, though he was not deluded into thinking you’d walk out and see the sun again just yet. Your debt was substantial and paying it off above the sea would only make the interest steeper and attach the ball and chain of parole to what was meant to be your freedom. But you had celebrated his birthday for four years now, since you’d found out the date (and, shamefully, he realizes he still doesn’t know yours).

He wanted to, for a change, celebrate you.

His hand holding the plate shakes a little, and he shifts his attention to check that none of the frosting stuck to the dust jacket of the book he’d gotten you. It was a frivolous purchase, a bit pricey, the exact thing he’d scold you for spending money on when you still have your debt to deal with. He can envision it clearly, you whining that, “you always tell me not to waste money! Why can you and I can’t?” in that exasperated tone you take when you think he’s not being fair. But you’d enjoy it; he knew you would. When it released, news trickled down through the shoddy welding and into whispers, and you’d lamented how desperately you wanted to read something new—instead of the same book you got a few years back and have since read so thoroughly the spine had cracked. And, particularly, you wanted to read this book because the whispers around it were so interesting—an analysis of entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure making it to publication in Fontaine, of all places, had piqued your interest. It was fiction, sure, but you bitterly hated Fontaine’s idea of the arts and their value—he’d been subject to many a rant on the topic. It only made sense you wanted to read something a bit more scathing, even if it would be dulled in its sharpness by the packaging of “any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental”.

Wriothesley had also offered to pay off your debt a few times by now, but he’d learned his lesson after the second. He had enough Coupons to cover the difference for your unadulterated freedom and would drop them on the bill in a heartbeat, but you’d refused—said you wanted to earn it. He knew it was pride. He also knew better than to push you on it. Cupcakes and a book would have to do.

He stands awkwardly in the doorframe for a moment. You know he’s there, he’s sure of it. He’s grateful the other inmates that sleep in the same room are away—that only you are witnessing the way he awkwardly shuffles in and tries to shield the presents from your view until he gives up and puts them on the small trunk you use as a coffee table and mumbles out a gruff “congrats on your sentence ending…” with red cheeks.

He’s still a little awkward and stiff, shifting nervously as you look at him and then, slowly, read the title of the book and look at the messily frosted cupcakes and the way frosting smushed onto the side of a few.

He wants you to say something.

He doesn’t expect what you do, though, stiffening as you suddenly let out a soft, happy gasp and hug him tightly, your arms wrapping over his shoulders and squeezing. Wriothesley hasn’t ever been this close to you, where your chest presses fully against his and his nose tucks against your hair—you smell good, and he swears his heart stutters when your fingers find their way to the hair at the base of his neck and grip to steady your balance.

His pulse stutters more when he feels your lips softly brush against the scar on his throat when your chin tucks against his shoulder. He doesn’t think you meant to kiss him—in fact, he’s almost certain you didn’t, but the touch short circuits his brain and by the time he remembers he needs to hug you back, needs to move his arms from where they hang limply by his sides, you’ve pulled away suddenly and turned your gaze to the presents. Almost like you can’t bear to look at him.

“I—” you frown, and Wriothesley blinks owlishly at you. His brain was still caught on the warmth of the hug, and the way it felt to have you that close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it’s just been so long since I’ve been this happy…” Your voice grows quiet, arms wrapping protectively around yourself.

Wriothesley realizes, finally, that you think you messed up by hugging him. “It’s okay,” he whispers softly, tone gentle—the kind he’d adopt to coax a scared kitten, one he has used just for that back when he was thirteen, and a small, hungry calico used to linger by his small tent. “I just haven’t been hugged like that before. Ever.” He admits it shakily, a bit ashamed. The fact that this was the most affection he’d ever been given, that he would lock up so horrifically at such a neutral action he’d make you feel like you’d done something wrong by being happy, felt terrible. “I’m not used to it, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t unwelcome, __.”

He inches slightly closer, fingers twitching as he places his palm on your arm before gently turning you to face him again. Goosebumps bloom beneath his fingers and your downcast expression pricks his heart. You look vulnerable and defeated in a way he’s not used to, weak and gentle in the palm of his hand as it skates up to your jawline and his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley is soft, achingly gentle, and as his gaze falls to your lips again, he realizes he wants to kiss you. He wants the brush of your lips along his throat to have been just that—a kiss. Maybe one you didn’t intend, but one he could have you replicate until his pulse flutters beneath your attention. “Is this okay?” He asks that a bit late, calloused thumb still tracing the planes of your face like he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know if he can. You look so vulnerable and sweet—and he should feel guilty. He does. He’s upset you on a day you should be celebrating, he’s potentially pushing boundaries by leaning into the care you have for him, but, selfishly, he wants to soak up a bit more of that affection.

You lean into his palm despite his doubts, nuzzling against the warmth of his hand cupping your cheek, the scratch of scars and callouses over your smooth skin. You’re warm under his fingers. Probably from your shyness, but he entertains the thought it is borne of want instead. A blush from his proximity. Wriothesley has never thought much about love. He didn’t feel much of a need for it. The love he’d been given, by his mother and father, had been conditional—despite the honeyed words and gentle hugs and promises of forever they’d given him; that love was rescinded and dried up the second he aged out of their favor. Living on the streets, or in the Fortress, didn’t give much for love either. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and, to come out on top, Wriothesley had long since learned that vulnerability was a weakness.

But the warmth of love and affection was much like the sun. People blossomed in it. He wanted that warmth and light, the blooming heat of being desired. His eyes fall to your lips once more: the soft curves; the deeper color where you’d chewed your bottom lip; the way they smush together from the force of his hand on your cheek into an endearing pout. And this his eyes trail to the cast of your lashes as you gaze downward, still hesitant to meet his gaze. The line of your nose. How he wouldn’t change a feature of yours, not as he watches with rapt, maybe inappropriate, focus while you blink back the glassiness of tears and furrow your brow in an effort to not look weak.

You’re using her, a nasty, persistent voice—his own—needles into him, you know you are. Why are you only entertaining these ideas when she’s like this? It gives him pause, enough that he drops his hand when your eyes flutter, and you meet his gaze with watery eyes. You deserve better than for him to act on a spur of the moment desire, even if it takes white knuckling his shirt with his other hand while he waits for you to find the words. Wriothesley thinks you deserve reciprocity. A better man than him.

“I’m okay,” you laugh softly, warmer and gentler than he expected. “Just a little embarrassed.”

He shakes his head and goes to deny it, but you shush him quickly.

“Are you okay?” You tilt your head, and he flushes under the weight of your gaze. It’s always been piercing—stripped down every wall he’d ever built with surgical precision and a kindness he never felt he deserved. “I know you don’t really like—I mean, I don’t know, but I assume you don’t like hugs… or any of that. I don’t… I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I don’t think that was okay.”

Wriothesley snorts, even smiles. “It’s alright. It’s rare to be so happy you lose control of yourself… at least down here. I’m glad that you’re happy.” It was nice to have you so close to me. “You were excited. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

–——–

You avoid Wriothesley for roughly a week after that night.

It’s easy to do. The production zone’s forges are almost always lit, heat simmering in the air and orange illuminating the cogs until the guards shut it down for curfew. Mindlessly working the machines until your shoulders ache and the muscles scream doesn’t leave time for conversation.

It does, unfortunately, leave time for thought. A mental replay of the stiffness to Wriothesley’s shoulders; how his hands slowly move and remained clumsy once he reacted; and, worst of all, how you still didn’t get a glimpse into his thoughts—it remained rushed apologies and reassurances that you were fine to be happy, to be emotional. Not whether or not he wanted affection from you.

Honestly, it just stung.

You had thought that you and Wriothesley got along well—and, sure, you’ve found him handsome since back when you were both teenagers, and you saw him, still lanky and boyish, tight-lipped as Sigewinne stitched him up, in the infirmary. But attraction aside, you hadn’t expected him to hate being touched so much. Perhaps foolishly, it had been easy to think that he didn’t mind closeness if it came from you.

And it was embarrassing to have kissed his neck. It wasn’t fully intentional, not really, but you’d be a liar if you’d said you hadn’t thought of it before. Many times, you’d imagined the scratch of his stubble along your cheek and jaw; the soft curve of his mouth contrasted by the fact his lips were almost always chapped (partly thanks to his tendency to pick the skin); and you’d pictured the way he might melt into it.

Now, he didn’t seem the type.

At least he hadn’t commented on it. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to face him again if he had.

You suppose the worst part was there was a moment where you thought he might have reciprocated your interest—he’s always been sweet, and kind, even if he was a bit rough on the edges and guarded when you first met. But there, over his cupcakes and presents, when his thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, you could’ve sworn he looked at you like he wanted you too.

Wriothesley has quite expressive eyes, and now, years into knowing him, you find them pretty easy to read—you’ve learnt each furrow to his brows, and the appearance of fine lines, formed from stress and aging, when emotion twists his features. And when his gaze fell to your lips, warmer than a blue that icy should ever be, they looked like maybe, just maybe, he could want you too.

Now, you’ve taken up one of the tunnel welding jobs. There’s a guard, only half-paying attention, at the entrance, and a damp, mossy wall of stone to your left as you add rivets and force paneling to agree with the curved shapes and haphazardly aligned beams. It’d be easy to not work. Your only monitor is toying with a cigarette and distracted by every patrol that comes by below the stairs.

It helps, though. When the sparks fly, and you carefully merge sheets of thick metal, and place large rivets as best you can; you don’t exactly have the time to endlessly think through Wriothesley’s reactions, and where you stand with him.

The guard leaves you at one point—you think maybe curfew?

But you remain, despite your handiwork growing sloppy, your eyes heavy, and your protective gear (cast aside hours ago once condensation began fogging your vision and sweat slicked your hair to your temples).

You don’t even remember slumping forward with exhaustion.

When you regain your senses, it’s to the sound of your welding gun clanking against the panel beneath your knees. Then, the heavy thud of boots splashing in the puddles where water drips steadily onto the unfinished floor.

“There you are.”

You barely lift your head, blinking blearily at the wall. “Have you been looking?”

It’s no surprise when Wriothesley answers, with what sounds like a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” There’s a sound of his boot scuffing against metal, and you can sense his presence behind you—from both his proximity and the shadow it casts in front of you, barely there in the low light. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Hm.” You catch the implication, the undercurrent of worry, but, for once, you want him to externalize his thoughts for you. You don’t want there to be a chance of you misreading him and projecting your fondness for him into the smallest acts of care. “Have I?”

“C’mon, __,” Wriothesley implores, voice softening as he sweeps a bit of soot from your temple. “You know you have been. Are you upset with me?”

You poke your cheek with your tongue, then sigh. “Not exactly. I’m worried I overstepped.” It stings to admit. “That it’s not okay, even with what you said.”

Wriothesley shifts to kneel down next to you, and it takes every bit of restraint you have to not turn to face him once he’s fully in your periphery.

“You didn’t.” He laughs, but it’s empty, an almost bitter, half-sound devoid of amusement. “I know I can be… difficult. Especially when you put me next to someone like you—you don’t really have issues feeling and expressing.” Wriothesley clicks his tongue and sighs. “Whatever, it’s beside the point. What I’m trying to—what I want to say, is your kindness and happiness is not unwelcome. They’re my issues, not yours.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.” Wriothesley pauses for a bit. You turn your chin a little to sneak glances at him, and it’s like you can see the words sitting on his tongue. There’s a solemness to his face, a cast to his jaw, that feels like you’ve stripped him bare. “My… history with love is not something you had any part in. And I’m really sorry it made you… I don’t know. Think I don’t care, maybe? That I used you?”

He laughs bitterly, muscles in his jaw ticking as he swallows thickly. “I guess I think I don’t deserve it. That’s all. I haven’t been hugged much. I was surprised.”

You frown, go to comfort him and smooth the furrow between his brows with your thumb, but it seems like now that he’s started; the words come on their own accord.

Wriothesley settles more, slumping next to you—so close your thighs touch, and his fingers find a seam on the inside of his jacket that he rolls over and over between his thumb and index finger as he speaks. “Love, affection, care… they’ve all only ever been a means to an end. A way to get ahead at the cost of someone else’s emotions and belief in you. I don’t know if you remember what I’m in here for, but it was parricide.

“I killed my parents. Love, for them, was… a way to make money. To make sure no one asked questions like ‘where’s that boy you fostered now?’ I was loved. I loved… love… them. But when I got too old, too—I don’t even know. Not worth it? They went to sell me to the highest bidder. And it’s hard to reconcile that with the fact that, when I was really young, they brushed my hair before bed and read to me until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“Or that they took my eggs out of the pan before everyone else’s at breakfast, because I liked them a little runnier.” He laughs, and it’s a little watery. When you finally turn fully to look at him, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears. “I ran away, at first, you know?”

“You had to live,” you whisper.

“I know,” Wriothesley said. “But it meant I left every kid they fostered and let them get their hopes up the same way. I found apprenticeships, I scrounged the streets and got into fights here and there. Made my gauntlets. But I never did anything until my little sister was too old for them. I just… it was okay if it happened to me, but not her.

“I was fine with scraps for clothes, only a bulle fruit I plucked off a tree on my stomach. I could take it. But I couldn’t let them do it to her and… it was the only way I could think to stop them. It’s just hard. To hear that I’m loved, and then have them try to dispose of me, and do it again, and again, and again.”

It’s obvious what he means to finish on. How do you reconcile that? How do you feel comfortable being cared for when all that ever was… was a lie?

Wriothesley leans back a bit.

The silence is palpable. He doesn’t turn to leave.

“I don’t know what to say,” you manage. “I mean—thank you for telling me, but…”

“It’s okay.” Wriothesley smiles. He tilts his head and just looks at you for a bit. “You don’t have to find the words to comfort me. I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I’ve done. I just didn’t want you to think you’d done something wrong.”

You turn towards him fully. It’s a relief to hear, but also deeply upsetting. There’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow against a few times. He’s suffered so much, you think. It was impressive that he could still keep going.

“Still, I’m happy you told me and trusted me with it,” you tell him. “You’re not a big sharer.”

He laughs. “I’m not, am I?”

“No. Like a ten-thousand-piece puzzle.”

That makes him snort. You smile, fondness blossoming in your chest. “I’m still sorry if the hug made you uncomfortable, though. Reasons aside, I don’t ever want to make you unhappy.”

“I know.”

“I, um, I want you to be happy too, you know? Not just me.” He grins, studying the nervous twitch to your lips when he held unexpected eye contact for a moment too long. “You deserve it. If I can do anything to make you happier, I want to.”

Silence stretches for a bit. When Wriothesley speaks again, his tone has dropped a bit lower and rougher. “Anything?”

When you meet his gaze, the gleam of humor is gone. There’s a sincerity to them that makes your stomach do flips. “Yeah,” you mumble. “If it’s something neither of us will regret… yeah.”

“I can promise I won’t regret it.” He doesn’t move just yet, restraint tensing every muscle as he maintains the distance. When your gaze flits down to his lips, a little chapped like always, he smiles. “Can I kiss you, __?”

The sound of your name on his tongue makes you shiver.

“Yes.” Your whisper is just as fragile as the thread of restraint between the two of you. Your permission snips it, and you curl into the warmth of his hand along your jaw and the soft, sweet press of his lips to yours. His stubble scratches your skin, and his lips aren’t smooth; but the soft, shaky inhale he takes, and way he melts into you, not pushing to take anything, is perfect.

When you lean into him with a bit more urgency and force as you meld against him, hands moving to cling to his broad shoulders, he smiles. Your noses bump together and your teeth clash against his in a small, blunt annoyance. When you giggle, he swallows the sound with a soft sigh and guides the tilt of your head with the hand cradling your cheek until you slot perfectly against him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

When he finally pulls back for air, your lungs burn for oxygen and your face is warm. Wriothesley isn’t much better—chest heaving a little; cheeks flushed a deep red; and his eyes look a little hazy where they remain trained on your lips.

When you laugh softly, he blinks at you, almost deer in headlights. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

He looks away suddenly, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the next shaky breath he takes. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” There’s an amused lilt to his voice, and he shakes his head to not laugh at his own nerves. “It must’ve been agonizing.”

“It will be, if you don’t kiss me again.”

Wriothesley smiles, the soft, boyish lilt that makes your heart ache. And never the type to purposefully cause harm, he does kiss you again, and again, and again.

–——–

Dating Wriothesley is so normal, you often forget you’re still leagues beneath the sea. It’s easy to imagine buying a home with him, adopting a cat, strolling down side alleys in the city and spending exorbitant amounts of Mora on trinkets; on homemade mugs that have chips in the pottery or uneven glaze that Wriothesley feels guilty getting for a discount, despite their flaws, because the creator spent time making each one, and money on the clay; on plants where you’ll bicker about what windowsill it’d look best in, and which room has the best sunlight for life.

Sunlight. It’d be nice to bicker about that, to have it.

Today, you also imagine watching the fireworks the Palais Mermonia sets off for the new year. It’s a newer tradition. One you’d seen in newspapers weeks after the event—it started a few years back. You’re not sure why. But you imagine it’s beautiful. Lights and colors giving the stars a run for their money, and the glimmering reflection on the ever-rising sea like a scattering of gemstones. It’d be cold, you think, with the spray off the surf carried by the wind, and the night deep enough the cicadas have begun to sing.

You think you’d tuck into his chest, with your head under his chin, just like you are now. Then, drape his coat or a blanket haphazardly over both of you, and stay until the night sky goes still.

“What are you thinking about?” Wriothesley asks, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Life up there,” you murmur, nuzzling closer. He shivers a little when your nose brushes his collarbone. For a man with a Cryo vision, he’s shockingly bad with the cold. “With you.”

“Yeah?” His smile is evident in his voice. “If you could wish for anything, right now, what it’d be?” Wriothesley’s fingers trace along the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up in your back, and you swear it feels like he’s writing I love you every now and then. “I heard people makes wishes and plans for the new year when they do the fireworks.”

You hum, trying to twist to view him a bit better. It’s hard to see him in the low light, but you can make out the shadow his stubble casts and fading patches of lavender from a days-old bruise by his eye. He’s a bit disheveled, but he’s yours. The messiness of his hair, and the threadbare, worn-soft shirt he has on—it’s all reserved just for you.

“I have everything I could want.”

Wriothesley hums when you say that, and then slowly asks, “even if your debt could be paid off, in full? You wouldn’t wish for that?”

You consider him for a moment. “I—of course I want to be done being an inmate, Wrio. But I’ve got you. I don’t mind it taking longer.” I wouldn’t want to leave you alone down here.

He laughs. Then shifts to burrow his head in your hair, placing a kiss on your scalp and inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “Okay,” he agrees. “But say the word, and I’m buying you out.”

It’s sweet—stated like a no-brainer to let you walk the surface again, even if it costs him thousands.

“What about the order you wanna buy?”

Wriothesley snorts. “It can wait. Until you’re free. You can always visit me and check on my progress.”

“Tempting… conjugal visits.”

He pulls back a little to look you in the eyes. “If you want to go, I’ll make it work. I promise. A pretty girl like you should be frolicking in the fields. Not in dorms that smell like mildew.” He scrunches his nose a little. Your last bit of candles can’t light anymore, and it really does smell terrible. You laugh, and he follows with a helpless smile.

“Promise you’ll frolic with me? Whenever we leave?”

“I could be convinced.”

When you smile, Wriothesley’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his laughter quickly fades. You hear the thump of your own heart, and his slow, steady breathing.

“You seem like you could be convinced to do a lot of things.” The joke falls short in the heavy tension suddenly blanketing you both. Then, his fingers tilt your chin up to look at him.

“If it involves you, yeah.” Wriothesley doesn’t even try to argue your point, and he leans close enough you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. “I’m always down.”

His eyes have darkened significantly, and that, along with his proximity and the scent of his cologne wrapping around you, is enough to have your pulse racing.

“You should probably say no to me sometimes. You’ll spoil me.”

Wriothesley smiles, and then he kisses you so sweetly that you forget how to breathe.

“I like you spoiled, silly girl,” he murmurs, dragging his kisses down to your jaw. He’s pleased when your breath hitches, and you make a soft, sweet sound as he makes small bruises along your throat. “You’re always so good f’me.”

“I am?” You ask breathlessly. You’re already pliant from the warm, calloused skin meeting your ribs as his hands slowly ruck up your shirt; but the affirming hum makes you practically melt into him. Wriothesley’s had you like this, sweet and wanting, on his palms many times by now—but it’s the first time he’s left a nearby lamp on.

“‘Course,” he agrees, lowering his head to kiss your breasts. “Look at you. Sweet and pretty.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” you say.

Wriothesley laughs and shakes his head. “That’s okay. I can see how pretty you are.”

You can see how pretty he is, too, when he tugs his shirt off and flings it to who knows where with yours. The scars along his chest, neck, arms, and hands; a small, dark smattering of hair along his pecs and another patch trailing down into his pants; and, more importantly, the sparkle to his eyes and a smile that won’t quite fade from his lips.

“You’re pretty, too,” you tell him. It’s hard to focus on the shy smile he gives you, because his right hand starts tracing your hip bones. “I like seeing you.”

He kisses you again. It’s slow and deep. Your heart aches. “I know, baby, I know.”

He does know. You’ve always made it a point to compliment him, and you can’t count the number of times he’s caught you staring, even during the most mundane tasks, on both hands. Wriothesley knows you think he’s attractive—he knows you even find the scars on the back of his hands charming. You’ve traced the shapes with the excuse of “putting ointment on so they heal right!” more times than he can remember, long after the skin had healed. He knows you like the dimple under his mouth, and how it’s only really visible when he gives a close-lipped smile because you’ve flustered him. He knows you like the crooked set to his nose bridge where a break didn’t heal quite right. You even comment on and embrace the gray streaks in his hair, cooing any time you notice a new silver strand down at the root.

And he loves you. Finds you beautiful. He adores it all. He’ll admire the curve of your hip into your waist, the soft, plush skin that gives under and fills his hands perfectly as readily as he’ll admire your hands; and how they slot into his, or squeeze his cheeks so hard he can’t talk, or card through his hair until he falls asleep. Wriothesley loves the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes when you laugh, and the way your nose scrunches up when you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

When he has you like this, he loves the arch of your spine and unconscious part of your lips. It’s clearer now than it’s ever been, with the golden lamplight making your skin glow. Your back arches when he finally slips pants and underwear away to test how wet you are on his fingers, and your lips pliantly welcome his other hand’s thumb. You nip gently when he trails his fingers away from your clit to your inner thigh to watch the way the muscles quake.

“Sorry, princess.” He’s not very sorry. He wants to catalogue every reaction you could ever have.

“Touch me.” It’s the brattiest you ever really get with him—when you start to impatiently wiggle to meet his touch or demand that he picks up the pace. He doesn’t deny you, even if he should. He does love you spoiled, after all.

“I am,” he reminds, laughing when you scowl. He lets his thumb roll over your clit and sinks his index to the first knuckle with no resistance.

When you moan softly, you can see him swallow and hear his breathing hitch. He slowly and steadily works you open until you take two fingers easily, curling and scissoring inside you until all you can hear is his palm meeting your soaked cunt. It’s obscene. It makes you want him so bad.

“You okay? You’re doing so good for me.” Wriothesley bends to kiss your temple, and you whine.

“Want you, Wrio. ‘m ready.”

He huffs out a laugh, melting against you when you drag him down to kiss you properly. He loves when your nails catch along his shoulders, and he loves more when you insistently tug down at the root of his hair.

“Okay, okay,” Wriothesley says. “So greedy.”

You are greedy. You watch the skin being presented with hungry eyes as he discards his pants and underwear. Your throat goes dry when his thick cock slaps against his stomach, and you can see the slick of his precum shining on his abdomen. He’s been bulking a bit lately—something about a tournament in the fighting rings? You don’t really care about the reason, but you’re grateful. He looks strong and sturdy. His tip is flushed a pinkish-red, and his cock twitches when you spread your legs a bit more open and shift your weight to lean further back.

“Such a pretty girl,” he croons.

The confidence falters the second he presses into you. His hips stutter a little, and he bites back a husky moan when your wet, warm walls welcome him so readily. Wriothesley presses his forehead to yours and steels himself for a moment with a deep breath.

“So deep,” you whimper as he finds a slow, steady pace that grinds his pelvis against your clit. Every time he bottoms out, the friction catches so deliciously it makes it hard to breathe.

His brow furrows at the praise, and you feel him twitch inside you. He kisses you messily—more breathing in each other than proper kisses, because his attention fades from nipping and licking your lip to the steady flutter of your pulse around him, and the arousal that only grows and slicks his skin when it meets yours.

When your back arches from the pleasure, one of his hands moves to brace there. His thumb rubs soothing circles onto the skin as your breath begins to catch more, and your moans grow weak. It’s possessive, too. A grip you know will leave bruises.

You lace your fingers through sweat-slick hair, tangled at the base of his skull.

“Wrio—” you whine brokenly, hips canting in slow, steady rolls that feel mind-numbingly good.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He’s twitching inside you, a telltale sign he’s close, too. The flex of his muscles you manage to see through blurry, teary-eyed vision makes the heat in your stomach burn brighter. “You can wait a second, right?”

“Kiss me,” you plead instead.

He does.

It’ll do both of you in, and you both know it. Your muscles twitch uncontrollably, and his breath pauses before he groans low and slow, spilling inside you right as your peak crashes into you. Wriothesley fucks you through it. He always does, until he’s outright whimpering into kisses because overstimulation has crawled up his spine and everything stings. But he needs you to feel good—he’s desperate for the way your breathing slowly returns to normal, and the way you melt beneath him into the mattress.

Even after he can catch his breath through the heady air, he stays in you until you push him and the heavy crush of his torso off you. He’ll wipe you clean and draw the lightest, coolest sheet over your bodies, and his greedy hands will keep tracing along your spine.

“I love you,” he whispers after a few moments of sated silence. “So much.”

“I know,” you answer. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles under the touch. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and he relishes in your affection. “I’m staying, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Until you can leave, too. What’s the point of being free if I don’t have you up there with me?”

Wriothesley hums. His eyes are soft and sweet. He looks carefree. “As long as you’re happy, I hope you’ll allow me to be greedy and keep you next to me.”

You laugh. “I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind.”

“I’ll be heartbroken if you do.”

–——–

The day Wriothesley’s sentence ends, the administrator runs for the hills.

He’d been challenged to a duel he could never win and was too much of a coward to be imprisoned in the same place he used to grow rich off the inmates’ labor. None of the guards particularly cared. One even ‘dropped’ the master key in Wriothesley’s path when he went to process his release paperwork. He hung it on the same chain his Cryo vision now proudly dangles from.

Taking over the Fortress is relatively easy. He’s earned the respect of the staff, and equal amounts of fear and awe in the other inmates. No one dared to challenge him—or, rather, no one who valued their own health did. Any foolish enough to bristle over Wriothesley taking up the mantle were swiftly reminded why he’d gone nearly undefeated in the underground ring.

The first thing he does, now a free man granted power, is strike your debt.

“You paid far more than 100,000 Mora,” Wriothesley said simply, when you asked why. It wasn’t a secret the value had been changing at will, but it was a relief to hear you could leave.

You didn’t, not yet.

Instead, you stayed to watch him set up an actual arena for fights—with more rules and regulations, so anyone fighting or betting had some level of protection he was never granted as a participant. He fixed the cafeteria. He extended friendly relations and mutual support back to the Palais Mermonia (and you’d teased him about making a friend with the Iudex and Sigewinne, though he protested for a month or two that the Head Nurse would always be more like his mother).

You weren’t happy about meeting the Iudex in a personal capacity at first. But you were quick to learn he was gentle and caring, and that he did not blame you for your actions or find you wrong. Just that the laws did. And as judge, he would defer to them in official capacities. He was charming and earnest. The type of man you’d want Wriothesley to be friends with, and more ammunition to help when Wriothesley got caught in his head (“Neuvillette wouldn’t be friends with you if you were a bad person, you know?”).

Once everything settles, he asks you about leaving more seriously.

“You know you can go back up, right?” Wriothesley’s voice is gentle. It’s a conversation he doesn’t really want to have. He likes having you close, he likes waking up to you, but he knows you’ve wanted to return above the sea since you entered twelve years ago.

“I know,” you tell him, tracing a finger along the rim of your teacup. They were new, courtesy of Sigewinne. “But I like being here with you. It’s not so bad.”

“A glowing review,” he murmurs dryly. “But, really. I have to stay down here now as the administrator. If you want to go back up, don’t stay on my accord. You can visit anytime. I can visit you—”

“I would want to go up with you.”

He nods. “I will. But I will have to work. You can slap me if I ever go too long without visiting. I’m not a coward; I can take it.”

“Will you press charges?” You’re teasing him now, smiling at the way he rolls his eyes. Both of you know you wouldn’t want to hit him and that he’d barely feel it if you did.

“Never, it’s the consequences of my actions. I’ll face them bravely.”

You grin and lean across the table to kiss him.

“I think… you should just get a bed big enough for the two of us. You have a fancy room back there. It can fit two.”

“Even if we don’t have the sunlight?”

“We’ll still get some from time to time,” you giggle. “Surely, you don’t think you’re getting out of your promise to frolic in the meadows with me?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is infinitely fond. “I promised you’d see the sun again someday. Maybe we’ll see the snow, too.”

You give an exaggerated sigh and pinch his cheek. “Guess I’ll have to buy you a scarf then.”

That makes his cheeks turn red. “You’re a fiend.”

“Mm, and all yours.” Wriothesley smiles wider.

For all the time you spent worrying that you’d never see the sun again, you can’t help but laugh softly. You’d made your own light far below the tide, using an amber lamp to light up a bedroom and future just for the two of you.

You try to keep your head up high when a Gestionarre reads your sentence to you once more and confirms your information for records, you really do. “You will not be allowed to leave the Fortress of Meropide for the duration of your sentence. You will not be permitted to bring items inside with you. Your sentence may be extended for the duration it takes to pay off your fines.” Her cold eyes bore unflinchingly into yours. “You will leave by this elevator in ten years’ time, should your debt be paid.”

Ten years. Ten years for daring to prevent another crime, for believing that that sniveling coward of a man would make good on the promises he’d been leaving your friend for years and choosing to protect her dignity at the cost of his (not that he had much. He was pathetic and afraid, always harming her in private while pretending to be the kind of man your parents would want you to bring home). You scoff. Your handcuffs are tugged harshly at the sound before you’re dragged into the center of the elevator platform. The sun burns your eyes as you look up at the bright blue sky, perfectly clear. The Hydro Dragon would not cry for you. The brightness stings, but you stubbornly look upwards until the musky gloom of the Fortress envelops you and you’re dragged forward to a desk in a line of other prisoners, uncuffed, and promptly left alone as the Garde hurries back above ground like the air itself would taint them.

That was fine. It was silence you desperately needed. A break from the chatter that questioned your morals—morals you knew were strong in their convictions and actions you would, should you need to, repeat again. Even the stagnant air of the Fortress warns of its unchanging state, mildew that must have never been cleaned mixing with metallic acridity. Fitting, for prisoners, you supposed. To have a sensory experience that assaulted the senses at worst and provided nothing but the bare minimum at best. A punishment, in its own right, to compliment the sentence the Oratrice handed to everyone this deep below the sea.

The receptionist is an older woman, privileged to live a life so long that the joints of her hand have begun to stiffen. That’s the main thing you notice, signaled as she grips the pen to fill out your forms with more force than something so flimsy needed. How terrible, you think, lips pressing into a thin line, to live so long and see and do so much, only to spend your days in such a dank tunnel, writing down the information of Fontaine’s worst.

You wonder how often she sees the sun.

“Name?” She glances up at you. 

“__,” you provide, and you spell it, too. You can’t help your curiosity, and as she starts an obviously practiced spiel about where to go and what to do next, interrupt “do you miss the sun?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The sunlight.” There’s restless movement behind you, other new inmates wondering what’s taking you so long. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?”

She smiles at you, and it feels like pity. “I do.” Places her pen down, shuffles your papers into an orderly stack, clips them, and drops them into a chute just behind her desk. “Next.”

–——–

The next thing of note that happens in the Fortress, other than the first night you spend without a wink of sleep, anxiously jolting at the sound of footsteps around you and the tiny bit of dignity you could still cling to (the new clothing tucked into the dingy trunk at the end of your stiff cot, and the bracelet your friend had given you they’d forgotten to take off your wrist), is the entry of a new inmate a bit over a month after you arrived.

New prisoners come in daily, like clockwork, just another cog in the machine of Meropide’s production. But there’s a buzz around this one, snippets of giddy conversation that felt like being transported back into the Opera Epiclese. 

“I heard he killed his parents! Could you imagine the sight of them?” and “must be an ungrateful brat” and even, “he must be quite strong, then. To kill two so young. Let’s invite him to spar.” It seemed like every inmate you happened across, whether during work or meals or down time, had some form of moral judgment to pass disguised as curiosity directed towards a man who, for all intents and purposes, was just like any of them. A criminal found guilty in the eyes of Fontaine’s courts.

It was interesting, you supposed. Parricide. The whispers of his sentencing made it evident he was young, though that could be gleaned from the leniency of his sentence alone. But it also made people curious—when he was on that stand, blinded by spotlights and surrounded by the buzz of gossip passed behind palms, was there unrest? A genuine uncertainty that brought to light some question of innocence and whether or not punishment was needed? If remediation could be enough? Some form of debate about whether or not his parents deserved it flitted into every conversation for days, despite barely anyone having laid eyes upon him. Just the paperwork that signed away his fate and went into the same chute as anyone else’s. 

It was ridiculous.

You were all in prison. How could any of you claim to be better? All of you had reasons, excuses, a tale you could recite as easily as breathing—some form of conviction and belief in yourself that justified why you were thrown into the Fortress. What gave any of you the right to question his life, his story, his actions? Would it even matter if you knew why? If he had a reason. Would it make it right? More interesting? Or was all the talk just a means to justify the snap judgments the headline alone made?

–——–

The grimy fluorescent lights of the infirmary are not among your favorite things to wake up to. In the bottom five, even. While they were once bright, dust and debris had filtered them to a hazy yellow that, when paired with the head nurse’s meals, was truly horrifying.

You shift, attempting to sit up, and a wave of nausea surges through you, strong enough you groan softly. When you can finally blink away the heaviness to your eyes, you spot another inmate on a cot nearby. He looks to be about your age, with a streak of blood on his shirt sleeve—and, upon closer inspection, Sigewinne appears to be giving him stitches right below the stain. There’s dirt on his cheek and a crooked smile that seems rather out of place for the scolding he’s getting (“you’ve got a death wish, picking a fight with someone so much bigger than you! Do you want to see how many stitches someone can have at once?” and a disapproving click of her tongue). 

You’ve never heard her be so fed up.

It takes effort to turn into a more comfortable position, but you do, snickering when you hear him—“bigger they are, harder they fall, right? I’d take a few stitches in exchange for justice any day.”

Sigewinne hums and finally closes up the wound. She levels him an unimpressed stare “do not move, Wriothesley. I’m going to get some ingredients for an ointment that you will put on as it heals.” She doesn’t seem to notice you’ve woken up as she bustles out of the room, though you’re fine with that. Having her undivided attention is a guarantee you’ll be nagged so thoroughly it’d put generations of mothers to shame.

Slowly, you sit up. Your gaze keeps drifting to the boy—Wriothesley, you suppose—he’s rather scrawny looking, like someone not quite done growing into their frame. There’s a nasty scar on his neck and chest, one that makes you inhale sharply at the sight. It’s a dark mark you can tell will never fade, from the jagged edges of discoloration and the way it’s not flush with the skin. Healed enough to be done healing, but not enough to ever be a mark he could forget. 

“Why are you staring?”

You flinch slightly, taken aback by him suddenly addressing you. “No reason,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the ground as embarrassment rushes through you. His voice is steady for the amount of stitching you saw, betraying no pain. How much has he gone through? You wonder, frowning, that this is nothing to him? 

Your curiosity has always been one of your bigger flaws. You never know when to drop things.

You blurt out “who’d you pick a fight with?” before sense can catch up to you. Thankfully, Wriothesley seems amused, snorting at the question and how your hand slaps to cover your mouth.

“No one important,” he drawls, and there’s a lilt to his voice that betrays that he must be smiling. “Just some asshole shaking down new inmates. Thinks he’s all that.”

It takes a second to register, mind racing through possibilities. And then, “you picked a fight with Dimitri?” You finally look back at him, reassessing his strength. “Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. He deserved it. He thinks he’s special, that he’s all that. He’s just a coward.”

“It still looks like he got you pretty good.”

Wriothesley shrugs, though the movement is stiff on the injured arm. “He looks worse than I do. Sigewinne didn’t even need to numb it.”

“She didn’t?” The blood soaking through the fabric makes the wound look pretty sizable.

“I told her not to,” he supplies softly. “There’s no need.”

“Not hurting is a pretty good reason.”

His expression is stormy when you look at him—there’s a hardness to his eyes and the slant of his pressed lips that give you pause. His silence is worse—all you can hear is the buzz of machinery in the air, the hum of the fluorescent lights and distant clanks of metal down in the production zone. The stale air of the infirmary has never been more oppressive than the way the words sit.

Finally, he sighs. He looks at you, unreadable, and gives a small, soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hurting is inevitable.”

You can’t press him on it. You didn’t have a right to, but even if you did, Sigewinne had just returned with hurried instructions for her nurse of the day and her hands full. She finishes up with him quickly, sending him off with an earful about picking better battles and how she’ll know if he doesn’t use the ointment, and she’ll track him down herself to put it on if he doesn’t. He’d laughed easily and dodged her out the door like it was a daily occurrence.

“__,” Sigewinne turns to you and you stiffen, smiling apologetically at the stern look on her face. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “No need to be sheepish.” She hands you a painkiller and some water and hums when you take them. “But working all day and night won’t get you out of here any faster.”

“I know…” you mumble, setting the glass down on the bedside table.

“Then stop doing it,” she pleads. “Resting will mean better work. And better days. That’s better than getting out with injuries from your impatience.”

You huff. “I’m not injured.” It falls flat when you’re in the infirmary and had to be brought in by other inmates that’d found you alone in the tunnels you were welding, with gear scattered haphazardly around your slumped figure and soot along your cheeks. “Fine. I’ll be better.”

“I will personally make sure of that, too.” Sigewinne squints at you. “You may go.”

–——–

Debt was one of the worse sentences the Oratrice could give. Going under the tide was expected if you were found guilty, but with how the Fortress ran solely on Credit Coupons (which seemed to have market fluctuations based on the administrator’s whims), any effort towards paying off your sentence would be foiled by having to pay for the bare necessities. Hungry? Need new bedding? You had to pay for it with the Coupons earned from your labor.

You were faced with this again, knuckles whitening as you tightly grip the flimsy plastic tray and stare down at the small, sloppily wrapped sandwich—the cling wrap has gaps, the bread’s gone stale, and the cook stares back at you. Not without sympathy, but not enough to sneak something else to you across the counter. “Costs went up again. This is what the minimum gets today.”

“Thanks…” you say. You try to smile at the guy working. He’s nice enough. You know it doesn’t meet your eyes.

You’re about to turn and sit to choke it down when someone behind you speaks.

“I’ll cover a bit more. Add a few sides.”

When you turn, you’re met with the boy—Wriothesley, you remind yourself—from the infirmary. He regards the cook steadily, expression unreadable. He jerks his chin slightly, and suddenly, the cook scrambles to action and places a decent looking salad and what appears to be some snacks next to the sandwich.

Wriothesley tosses a bundle of Coupons without glancing at or counting the amount. “That’s enough for mine and hers.”

You regard him with suspicion. He’s rocking on his heels casually; hands stuck back into his pockets as he waits.

“I was fine, you know.”

His brow raises. “Do you not want it?”

That makes you deflate a little, sighing heavily. It takes a lot to swallow your pride, but you’ve been hungry all week—it’s gnawed at you, and you’ve gotten close to fainting too many times in the production zone. “No, I’ll… I’ll take it. Thank you.”

He grabs his food when it’s placed with a thud on the counter. His eyes narrow at the cook, and it sends a chill down your spine. When you glance down at the tray, it’s filled with food. More than you’ve seen in a bit. Then, you notice there’s raw, broken skin on his knuckles—red, angry, almost splitting with his grip.

“What happened to your hands?”

He looks down at them, like it’s surprising you’d even ask. “Boxing.”

Wriothesley offers nothing more.

When he turns on his heel to walk away, you stop him to hand him a small bit of scrap you’d pocketed from your welding jobs. It’s not much, just metal too warped or thin to work for walls and rivets, and pieces too small for the guards to notice. There’s what looks like burns along his arms, the same kind you’d seen when he was getting stitched. You’d burnt yourself enough in the tunnels that you know how metalworking marks the skin.

He accepts them.

–——–

There’s been a fighting ring in the Fortress for a bit. It’s definitely not official—the participants scatter the second the buzz of a radio on a guard’s hip draws a bit too near to the abandoned tunnel. It’s interesting though. You’re not a fighter, never have been, but it’s easy to consider the betting as a way to make Coupons.

Of course, you know gambling isn’t a good idea. But, in theory, it makes you feel hopeful. So, you end up in that damp, wide, unfinished tunnel today, eyeing two fighters surrounded by a ring of clamoring inmates.

It seems like you’re late to place bets.

You can’t see the fighters—the throng of the crowd is too thick to see through. But you can hear the scrape of metal on metal and hissing elemental energy that seeps outwards as vapor. It doesn’t take long for a victory to be decided; evident by the thud of a body falling and cheers filling the area.

Credit Coupons trade hands swiftly. Everyone disperses even faster.

One of the fighters remains. It’s not shocking that it’s Wriothesley. There’s a bit of blood trickling down his jaw from a small nick, and his chest is heaving from the exertion. He has gauntlets on his hands, with gears ticking and what looks like Cryo crystallizing along the edges. His wrists roll uncomfortably as he is handed a sizable pouch of Coupons from the referee.

You regard the drops of blood speckling the floor, and the elemental residue for a moment more. Then, you turn on your heel and follow behind Wriothesley, a few feet behind. You follow quietly behind him right until the opening of the tunnel. His shoulders are still tense, and he moves cautiously.

When you catch up and go to walk out, he spins and pins you to a wall in just two seconds. Your breath hitches, and your eyes dart from his furrowed brow down to the hand pressed against your throat. It looks like he recognizes you, because the pressure lessens, but he keeps you trapped.

“If you wanted to sneak up on me, you should walk quieter.”

“I didn’t want to,” you croak out, pressing your head backwards to breathe a little easier.

“Then what?” Wriothesley huffs.

“Your hands—” you inhale sharply when he presses a little more. “I have more scrap. For your gauntlets, right?”

Wriothesley drops his hands to his side. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“—and I can walk quietly!”

He laughs at your indignance. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

You sigh, relieved, when he steps back further. “Yeah. I won’t be slandered.”

Wriothesley tilts his head at you. “You’re an odd one. Fine, I’ll barter for your scrap.” He begins walking down the hall and you scurry to follow him and fall in step. “What would you like for it? Potions?”

“I was thinking more… we look out for each other?” Your voice softens nervously. “It’s good to have someone on your side down here.”

There’s a pause as he considers it. “Sure.”

–——–

It becomes a habit to find him after his fights and help fix up his gauntlets after that.

He’s been here—you’ve been here—for about three years now. It’s nice to have someone to trust, even more so when it’s someone as strong as Wriothesley.

He’s grown into his frame and strength now. He’s not lanky anymore, instead stacked with corded, functional muscles. Taller, too, and broad. Everything about his posture and form screams how strong he is. You think he probably doesn’t even need the gauntlets anymore. The callouses on his hands and the force his punches pack would be enough to knock almost anyone flat on their backs.

Wriothesley is normally quiet during repairs. The machinery is small and difficult to work with, and his hands don’t fit in as well as they used to (you’d learnt he made them initially at fourteen, and that made the crude welding much more understandable. He’s far too skilled and in control to make such sloppy welds now).

You’re better at it than he is, carefully reinforcing a segment with slow, steady hands.

“Why do you still use these?” You ask when you pause to inspect them, sitting up and giving your aching back a break from the way you hunch over the work. “You don’t really need them anymore.”

He hums, sliding the gauntlets into his palms and checking the work. He seems pleased by the small smile on his lips. “They make me stronger. Why not?”

“You wouldn’t need to scrounge for scrap is all,” you mumble, setting all his tools back. “And you’re not afraid of stitches. What’s a few more in your hands going to do?”

Wriothesley laughs at that, free and happy. It makes you grin, too.

“Why get them, though? It lets me use Cryo and it makes the fights faster. Very efficient.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I guess… if you ever leave them in here, I’ll chase off any would-be thieves.”

“You’re not much of a fighter though, are you?”

“I’m not,” you admit. You were only down here because you defended your friend. As protective as you were, you were rash. You’d come to realize Wriothesley wasn’t that quick to anger, and you envied the trait. He was strong, and he was calculated. If anything riled you up enough, it was normally too late to think it through, which being friends with him had made very evident.

“Well,” he says dryly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think I’m a better guard dog than you.”

When you huff dramatically, he just rolls his eyes with a smile.

–——–

You earn most of your Coupons in the production zone. It felt wrong to bet on Wriothesley—like you were cheating, almost. Of course, the other inmates bet on friends and rigged things, but you had several more years to go. You might as well work to make the time pass.

Wriothesley visits sometimes. When you’ve been forging so long, you can’t wipe the sweat off your brow before more forms, and when you can barely maintain your grip on your tools.

“What do you want to get with all your Coupons?” You ask him. He’s leaning against a wall a few feet away and watching you work—he’ll at least carry the finished rivets to the guard managing the area for you, speeding up your process a little. “You have a lot now, right?”

“I do,” he agrees. It’s nice that he doesn’t rub it in. You don’t know how much he has now, and you think finding out would crush your spirit.

“Do you just want to be rich?” You’re a bit woozy when you straighten and breathe in shakily. The air is stagnant and heavy, and it takes a moment to breathe normally again. “Start with taking over my shifts.”

Wriothesley snorts. “You could just stop taking them. Go place bets. Hell, maybe you could fight in the matches.”

“And get my face folded in?” You scowl at him.

He laughs, and, when the guard isn’t looking, finishes hammering out your last six rivets. He makes it look effortless.

“Maybe you’d be good.” Wriothesley shrugs. “Order. I want to buy order.”

“How do you plan on buying a concept?” You put back the tools and gather all your rivets. He falls into step with you. “Doesn’t seem like something a merchant of smuggled goods can stock.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, arms crossing over his chest. You watch the movement of muscle with rapt attention for a moment before turning away to turn in your work. “But I can buy a chance to make it happen. Make it so people pretend they didn’t see anything.” There’s a certainty to Wriothesley’s voice that intrigues you, but right now you’re too hungry to care.

“Well, restructuring a prison you’re an inmate in seems difficult. Regardless of how rich you are. You can start with buying me lunch.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “Are you always this greedy?”

You shrug. “Will you buy it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

–——–

The steam rising off the tea is a novel sight. It’d been a long time since you had any warm drink, and much less one imported. Wriothesley had chided you for the purchase, but you were firmly of the belief that you should still have small joys in your life, even when you’re well under the sea. 

You had caught him in the cafeteria earlier, told him with bright eyes and slightly warm cheeks that you had tea—from Liyue, and a new blend at that—if he’d like to come try it.

It surprises you when he shows up. It shouldn’t, but it does. His gauntlets are off, perhaps in his dormitory, and his hair looks damp. He’s rather unguarded and domestic in a way that makes your pulse flutter. When he sits next to you, you finally break the silence with a soft, almost shy “you can pick first.” He’s smiling freely as he spins the mug around and studies it. Inhales. Sighs out happily, humming at the aroma and the warmth on his fingers as he lifts it. By the way his brows raise and the corner of his mouth lilts, it’s a good blend and steeped well. That makes you happy.

“It’s delicious,” he mumbles, leaning his head back on the edge of your cot. You lean down and grab your own before resting back on the wooden frame, studying his expression. “It was an irresponsible purchase. But… an enjoyable one, I must admit.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Must you chide me now? Just enjoy it.”

He shrugs and smiles at you. “I am enjoying it and chiding you,” he chuckles, savors another sip. “I’m capable of multitasking.”

The silence over the pair of you is comfortable. He seems softer than normal and, after a few minutes, your curiosity (nosiness, you can hear his voice in your head, you’re just nosy!) gets the better of you. “Why are you so happy today?”

Wriothesley makes a noncommittal noise. “Can I not be?” Your exasperated sigh and silence are answer enough. “It’s… my birthday,” he says finally, setting his empty mug down where he won’t accidentally knock it over. “I know this is by no means a birthday present, but it was… pleasant. To have this day be marked by a nice present.”

“Oh,” you gasp, and there’s a bit of shame that flickers through you for not knowing it was his birthday. “Happy birthday, Wriothesley,” and then, almost as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re spending it with me.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “I spend a lot of days with you,” he reminds. “This one is no more special.”

“It is!” You insist, sliding onto the floor before shuffling closer to him. “It’s your birthday. And, sure, I didn’t know it was”—he looks at you, amused and mischievous, and you make a face back before continuing—“but I’m happy that we got to enjoy an imported tea on your birthday. Birthdays should be pleasant.”

He nods. “They should, I suppose,” he leans against you a little, and your skin prickles with warmth where you’re pressed flush against him. “They aren’t always. But this one is,” he studies you. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

You giggle and he scoffs when you sing-song “oh, so you like me!” You sober a little bit, tone dropping to be more sincere. “I’m glad you do like me though, you know. It took a lot of time and effort to do that. I’m happy to have that confirmation.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Surely, you must know I like you. With the amount of time I spend with you, it’d be crazy if I somehow didn’t.” It’s so not romantic, it’s just… Wriothesley, straightforward and simple and teasing. No laced meaning. But your mind races and imagines him saying he likes you in a far different way. 

He sighs softly, getting more comfortable (as much as you can on a floor made of warped, cold metal dotted with huge, poorly done rivets). You drink him in, gaze flitting from the strength of his brow, to the way the amber lamplight looks like stained glass where it reflects in his eyes, the bend in his nose (caused by a poorly set fix after a fight, you’re sure). The angle of his jaw, and the dark shadow of stubble that dots over it. His hair, with small gray streaks that he’s gotten during his time here (you know he did not have them when you first met; you’re quite sure you’d remember if he did), falling loosely over his face and frizzing slightly as it dries.

“How old are you now?” You ask abruptly when you’re suddenly aware of how shamelessly you’ve been admiring him. You hope he is too tired to notice the weight of your stare.

He looks at you, eyes heavy and sleepy, and you know him well enough to tell the tiredness of the day has caught up to him at this point—and yet he humors you anyways. “Twenty-one,” he seems to be thinking through the timeline for a moment, wading through the endlessly recursive days he’s spent in the Fortress. “I’ve been in here for exactly five years now.”

“You were admitted on your birthday?” It’s upsetting, knowing that his birthday was the day he was found guilty and brought in. It’s no wonder he doesn’t find it pleasant, you think, frowning at his words, to have your birthday just be a reminder of how much time you’ve spent down here.

Wriothesley nods. “It’s alright. I’m guilty of the crime, after all. I know what I did to be here.” He brushes his hair back out of his eyes and sighs. “It’s just like any other day.”

Worst of all, you know he means that. His birthday is nothing to be celebrated and certainly shouldn’t overshadow the things he did—where it’s just a day, with the good and bad cancelling each other out. Where his birthday was nothing to be celebrated when compared to any other day. “I heard some of the guards mention it was snowing,” you say softly, studying his expression. “Maybe one birthday soon you’ll get to enjoy it.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not a big fan of snow anyways, it’s not the cold I prefer.” That wording gives you pause. What does he prefer then? Cryo? Hydro? Or is he just talking about cold refreshments, like ice cream or a drink with several ice cubes? It’s not anything worth dwelling on, just a subtle ache from the gaps in your knowledge. You want to know him so much better than you do. “Long time until I get out, anyways. The weather the Court gets right now is of no interest to me.”

“Long time?” You hazily remember his sentencing from the talk when he entered the Fortress five years ago, but not well. Just that it was lenient in many people’s eyes.

“Seven more years,” he chuckles. “It’s alright. I’ll enjoy the sunshine in seven years’ time, and I’ll appreciate the snow from behind a window.”

You snort. “Yeah?”

Wriothesley grins, boyish and gentle, before whispering a soft “yeah.” He looks happy, carefree, for a moment. His smile is a little crooked, and there’s a dimple under his lips you’ve never noticed before. Achingly, he looks like the boy—man, now, you suppose—he is. The sight of him makes you wish that kameras were something allowed in the prison, and that you could afford one. You want to immortalize the crinkle to his eyes and the scrunch of his nose. 

It fades quickly, though, and you hope your mental snapshot will do it justice. He sombers some, shoulders dropping. “I miss it,” he admits. “The sun. Sometimes, when…” he pauses, weighing his words. You wish he wouldn’t, so eager to hear his unfiltered thoughts. “Sometimes, I go by the intake desks and the elevator to watch the searchlights sweeping the waters outside,” he admits. “I imagine it’s the sunlight filtering through, that the rays could reach us down here. It makes it a whole lot brighter.”

You chew your lip and nod. “I miss the warmth, too,” you tell him, and he seems relieved to hear it. “I have seven more to go too—I mean, not on paper. It’s something like four. But we both know my debt won’t be paid off by then,” you draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. You feel his stare and glance away, voice cracking as you whisper, “I don’t know if I’m ever getting out of here.” The sting of tears takes a lot of effort to blink back, and you tense slightly as his hand comfortingly rubs your shoulder. How embarrassing. “The current administrator… he keeps… I don’t know, I guess he just wants us down here forever and fuck with us, the bastard. Every time it seems like my debt is shrinking, the number of Coupons you can earn and their value gets lower, or interest on the debt gets higher. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the sun again.” There’s a lump in your throat when you finally stop speaking, and no amount of swallowing it down or rubbing your face makes it stop. 

“He’ll be stopped one day,” Wriothesley resolutely tells you. 

You laugh, a broken, watery sound that tears its way out. “How can you be so sure?”

“I plan to make sure of it,” he shifts, then rises. “One day. When I can buy that order I’ve always wanted.” You roll your eyes in an effort to be playful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ll get out some day. We both will.” He promises, and you shiver as callused fingers shift some fine hairs off your temple. “Goodnight, __. Thank you for the tea.”

–——–

By the time Wriothesley has gathered more Coupons and established his name, you’ve been in there for eight years. It’s obvious you won’t be out when your ten years end—you can’t pay off the fine. But you do enjoy more luxuries than you had more in your youth.

Wriothesley is generous, and kind, and will cover smaller purchases or meals for you. Or, at least, your version of Wriothesley is.

He’s notorious. Other inmates don’t remember the crime that landed him in here, and, honestly, you don’t either. But they speak of his strength and his ruthlessness in the ring; of his wealth and their ideas of his plans for it all; and they speak of him as an opponent. To be talked about and to be known is to have power, at least among the inmates. The guards don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You all get the same disdain.

It means he’s challenged often. Now, the referee and ringleader of the underground fights has caught the two of you in an isolated bit of the dormitory floor, where no one walks by. Étienne had grown frustrated by his continuous success. It’s a known secret he rigged the betting. If Wriothesley participates, those attempts fail.

“If you ever step foot in my arena again,” he sneers at Wriothesley, hands balling into fists at his side. “I’ll make sure you can’t ever again.”

Wriothesley raises his brows and smiles. You scoff, eyes flickering between the two of them. Étienne is no match for Wriothesley, and you both know it. He’s a bit scrawny and a coward to boot—reliant on people he’s paid to stand by him, and he lets their fists do the talking for him. He’s alone in this confrontation, and you wonder how he gained the confidence to do it.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who ended up underground for fraud,” you say. It’s kind of fun to see his attention dart suddenly to you and the lazy roll of your eyes. “Very bold of you to talk so much shit. Don’t you know both of us are in here for more violent offenses?”

You slide off of the box you were sitting on, and he falters, mouth opening and closing on an argument he can’t form. You circle him—it’s funny, really. Your crime was not that violent. Aggravated assault, sure, but it was on a coward of man who raped your friend, and you’d waited to catch him off-guard. You weren’t the type to win in a heads-on confrontation.

But Étienne doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to. His focus remains on Wriothesley even as you keep talking and sizing him up because he is the much more obvious threat.

“I mean, look at you. No scars, no fights won against anyone worth their salt… you’re kinda scrawny, aren’t you? That’s why you hire those guys… your muscle. The bite to your bark. Do you think you could take him?”

Wriothesley is smiling. You can see in his eyes that he’s amused by you and the bravado, but you imagine it’s much scarier if you don’t know him. Like he’s smiling at the idea of knocking you out.

“It’d probably be cathartic for him to go all out, you know? Fight someone without holding back?”

Étienne steps back.

Wriothesley cracks his knuckles, and you watch Étienne flinch, pausing in his slow, steady retreat like a deer in headlights as he says, “Word of advice? Pick battles you can win. If you’re weak, you can’t be a fool, too.”

–——–

At some point, Wriothesley finally started getting the guards to turn a blind eye. It’s been three years since he told you of his plans for order. You’d joked about his certainty he’ll create a new, sure, but you can truly see the respect he’s earned by now.

The administrator’s hand has slipped a bit by now, and his corruption has grown more evident in the way he adjusts Credit Coupon values to his will. He’d even begun to lay off longtime guards and all the support staff Sigewinne had in the infirmary.

Inevitably, understandably, they began to chafe under his tight grasp.

Wriothesley was well-mannered and likable. But more importantly, confident enough to push back and force change—even in things as small as making food more affordable and having a basic need for living met, regardless of the hours you put into the Production Zone. You hadn’t gone hungry in a while.

The guards ignored anything he stirred up. Hell, you’d even caught snippets of conversation, during long nights of working on and welding tunnels, where they rooted for him over their boss.

He’s finally lessened the amount of fighting he does, too. If he is ever in the ring, the knock of his knuckles against jaw or ribs and the dark bruises blooming is enough to earn respect. The gauntlets are primarily retired, a bit too stiff and old to function as well as they used to.

You plan on upgrading them for him some day.

He’ll use it if he must, leaving nicks in the skin from metal on opponents who pushed their luck too far. Sometimes, he’ll even Cryo the enemy—which was a shock for you the first time you witnessed it, just a few minutes ago.

“You have Cryo potions?” It was still simmering in the air above Dimitri’s unconscious frame. You backed away without meaning to, attempting to avoid the chill nipping at your arms. “I thought no one smuggled them anymore?”

Wriothesley rolls his shoulder and wrists, and then he slips off the gauntlets. “No one does.”

“Then—”

“A Vision.” Wriothesley nudges Dimitri with his boot and sighs. He stoops to lift him, shifting the weight easily. “We have to bring him to the infirmary.”

You frown. “Someone will find him, surely.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I've never tested what Cryo does to someone if you leave it on their flesh. I don’t particularly care to test it.”

The mental image of it eating his skin makes you flinch. You gather his gauntlets and follow him. It’s not really surprising he has a Vision—he’s exactly the type the gods would smile upon. Strong. A sense of justice. Triumphant in the face of hardship.

You wonder why the Hydro Archon never smiled upon him. Did she have a premonition of his crimes?

“When did you get it?” You ask softly, once you’ve drawn near to the infirmary and he shifts the weight to better climb the stairs.

“My birthday,” he laughs bitterly. “A lot tends to happen on it for me, huh?”

“A Vision is a blessing, at least.”

Wriothesley hums. “It might be. But it also marks what I had to live through. It’s neither good nor bad.” He sets Dimitri on a bed. Sigewinne will find him eventually. “But it is useful in times like these.”

–——–

Wriothesley is anxious. He shouldn’t be—asking for favors beyond the scope of what prisoners are meant to have access to and paying in Credit Coupons has long since been standard in the Fortress. He wasn’t even asking for contraband, like some of the tougher, older inmates who used their money and connections to sneak in potions and weapons to keep people in check and feel more powerful than they were.

He was asking the cafeteria’s cook to make cupcakes.

The cook had agreed readily, making cakes that were shockingly nice (the cook was skilled—Wriothesley had just accepted that food in the underworld tended to be dry and the ingredients able to be used were always subpar produce, cuts of meat, or sent in such small quantities that they weren’t able to make a dish excellent) and giving him a frosting bag that looked small in his hand. It was hard to use for that reason, but Wriothesley also just… didn’t have a talent for cake decoration. At least, that was his conclusion when he finished frosting all six, where it slid onto the sides and made such messy spirals; he didn’t think you could tell that they were meant to be spirals.

It was for a small thing, too—another reason his nerves felt ridiculous. Your sentence, the ten years spent below the sea, was ending that day. Wriothesley had wanted to celebrate, though he was not deluded into thinking you’d walk out and see the sun again just yet. Your debt was substantial and paying it off above the sea would only make the interest steeper and attach the ball and chain of parole to what was meant to be your freedom. But you had celebrated his birthday for four years now, since you’d found out the date (and, shamefully, he realizes he still doesn’t know yours).

He wanted to, for a change, celebrate you.

His hand holding the plate shakes a little, and he shifts his attention to check that none of the frosting stuck to the dust jacket of the book he’d gotten you. It was a frivolous purchase, a bit pricey, the exact thing he’d scold you for spending money on when you still have your debt to deal with. He can envision it clearly, you whining that, “you always tell me not to waste money! Why can you and I can’t?” in that exasperated tone you take when you think he’s not being fair. But you’d enjoy it; he knew you would. When it released, news trickled down through the shoddy welding and into whispers, and you’d lamented how desperately you wanted to read something new—instead of the same book you got a few years back and have since read so thoroughly the spine had cracked. And, particularly, you wanted to read this book because the whispers around it were so interesting—an analysis of entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure making it to publication in Fontaine, of all places, had piqued your interest. It was fiction, sure, but you bitterly hated Fontaine’s idea of the arts and their value—he’d been subject to many a rant on the topic. It only made sense you wanted to read something a bit more scathing, even if it would be dulled in its sharpness by the packaging of “any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental”.

Wriothesley had also offered to pay off your debt a few times by now, but he’d learned his lesson after the second. He had enough Coupons to cover the difference for your unadulterated freedom and would drop them on the bill in a heartbeat, but you’d refused—said you wanted to earn it. He knew it was pride. He also knew better than to push you on it. Cupcakes and a book would have to do.

He stands awkwardly in the doorframe for a moment. You know he’s there, he’s sure of it. He’s grateful the other inmates that sleep in the same room are away—that only you are witnessing the way he awkwardly shuffles in and tries to shield the presents from your view until he gives up and puts them on the small trunk you use as a coffee table and mumbles out a gruff “congrats on your sentence ending…” with red cheeks.

He’s still a little awkward and stiff, shifting nervously as you look at him and then, slowly, read the title of the book and look at the messily frosted cupcakes and the way frosting smushed onto the side of a few.

He wants you to say something.

He doesn’t expect what you do, though, stiffening as you suddenly let out a soft, happy gasp and hug him tightly, your arms wrapping over his shoulders and squeezing. Wriothesley hasn’t ever been this close to you, where your chest presses fully against his and his nose tucks against your hair—you smell good, and he swears his heart stutters when your fingers find their way to the hair at the base of his neck and grip to steady your balance.

His pulse stutters more when he feels your lips softly brush against the scar on his throat when your chin tucks against his shoulder. He doesn’t think you meant to kiss him—in fact, he’s almost certain you didn’t, but the touch short circuits his brain and by the time he remembers he needs to hug you back, needs to move his arms from where they hang limply by his sides, you’ve pulled away suddenly and turned your gaze to the presents. Almost like you can’t bear to look at him.

“I—” you frown, and Wriothesley blinks owlishly at you. His brain was still caught on the warmth of the hug, and the way it felt to have you that close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it’s just been so long since I’ve been this happy…” Your voice grows quiet, arms wrapping protectively around yourself.

Wriothesley realizes, finally, that you think you messed up by hugging him. “It’s okay,” he whispers softly, tone gentle—the kind he’d adopt to coax a scared kitten, one he has used just for that back when he was thirteen, and a small, hungry calico used to linger by his small tent. “I just haven’t been hugged like that before. Ever.” He admits it shakily, a bit ashamed. The fact that this was the most affection he’d ever been given, that he would lock up so horrifically at such a neutral action he’d make you feel like you’d done something wrong by being happy, felt terrible. “I’m not used to it, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t unwelcome, __.”

He inches slightly closer, fingers twitching as he places his palm on your arm before gently turning you to face him again. Goosebumps bloom beneath his fingers and your downcast expression pricks his heart. You look vulnerable and defeated in a way he’s not used to, weak and gentle in the palm of his hand as it skates up to your jawline and his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley is soft, achingly gentle, and as his gaze falls to your lips again, he realizes he wants to kiss you. He wants the brush of your lips along his throat to have been just that—a kiss. Maybe one you didn’t intend, but one he could have you replicate until his pulse flutters beneath your attention. “Is this okay?” He asks that a bit late, calloused thumb still tracing the planes of your face like he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know if he can. You look so vulnerable and sweet—and he should feel guilty. He does. He’s upset you on a day you should be celebrating, he’s potentially pushing boundaries by leaning into the care you have for him, but, selfishly, he wants to soak up a bit more of that affection.

You lean into his palm despite his doubts, nuzzling against the warmth of his hand cupping your cheek, the scratch of scars and callouses over your smooth skin. You’re warm under his fingers. Probably from your shyness, but he entertains the thought it is borne of want instead. A blush from his proximity. Wriothesley has never thought much about love. He didn’t feel much of a need for it. The love he’d been given, by his mother and father, had been conditional—despite the honeyed words and gentle hugs and promises of forever they’d given him; that love was rescinded and dried up the second he aged out of their favor. Living on the streets, or in the Fortress, didn’t give much for love either. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and, to come out on top, Wriothesley had long since learned that vulnerability was a weakness.

But the warmth of love and affection was much like the sun. People blossomed in it. He wanted that warmth and light, the blooming heat of being desired. His eyes fall to your lips once more: the soft curves; the deeper color where you’d chewed your bottom lip; the way they smush together from the force of his hand on your cheek into an endearing pout. And this his eyes trail to the cast of your lashes as you gaze downward, still hesitant to meet his gaze. The line of your nose. How he wouldn’t change a feature of yours, not as he watches with rapt, maybe inappropriate, focus while you blink back the glassiness of tears and furrow your brow in an effort to not look weak.

You’re using her, a nasty, persistent voice—his own—needles into him, you know you are. Why are you only entertaining these ideas when she’s like this? It gives him pause, enough that he drops his hand when your eyes flutter, and you meet his gaze with watery eyes. You deserve better than for him to act on a spur of the moment desire, even if it takes white knuckling his shirt with his other hand while he waits for you to find the words. Wriothesley thinks you deserve reciprocity. A better man than him.

“I’m okay,” you laugh softly, warmer and gentler than he expected. “Just a little embarrassed.”

He shakes his head and goes to deny it, but you shush him quickly.

“Are you okay?” You tilt your head, and he flushes under the weight of your gaze. It’s always been piercing—stripped down every wall he’d ever built with surgical precision and a kindness he never felt he deserved. “I know you don’t really like—I mean, I don’t know, but I assume you don’t like hugs… or any of that. I don’t… I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I don’t think that was okay.”

Wriothesley snorts, even smiles. “It’s alright. It’s rare to be so happy you lose control of yourself… at least down here. I’m glad that you’re happy.” It was nice to have you so close to me. “You were excited. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

–——–

You avoid Wriothesley for roughly a week after that night.

It’s easy to do. The production zone’s forges are almost always lit, heat simmering in the air and orange illuminating the cogs until the guards shut it down for curfew. Mindlessly working the machines until your shoulders ache and the muscles scream doesn’t leave time for conversation.

It does, unfortunately, leave time for thought. A mental replay of the stiffness to Wriothesley’s shoulders; how his hands slowly move and remained clumsy once he reacted; and, worst of all, how you still didn’t get a glimpse into his thoughts—it remained rushed apologies and reassurances that you were fine to be happy, to be emotional. Not whether or not he wanted affection from you.

Honestly, it just stung.

You had thought that you and Wriothesley got along well—and, sure, you’ve found him handsome since back when you were both teenagers, and you saw him, still lanky and boyish, tight-lipped as Sigewinne stitched him up, in the infirmary. But attraction aside, you hadn’t expected him to hate being touched so much. Perhaps foolishly, it had been easy to think that he didn’t mind closeness if it came from you.

And it was embarrassing to have kissed his neck. It wasn’t fully intentional, not really, but you’d be a liar if you’d said you hadn’t thought of it before. Many times, you’d imagined the scratch of his stubble along your cheek and jaw; the soft curve of his mouth contrasted by the fact his lips were almost always chapped (partly thanks to his tendency to pick the skin); and you’d pictured the way he might melt into it.

Now, he didn’t seem the type.

At least he hadn’t commented on it. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to face him again if he had.

You suppose the worst part was there was a moment where you thought he might have reciprocated your interest—he’s always been sweet, and kind, even if he was a bit rough on the edges and guarded when you first met. But there, over his cupcakes and presents, when his thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, you could’ve sworn he looked at you like he wanted you too.

Wriothesley has quite expressive eyes, and now, years into knowing him, you find them pretty easy to read—you’ve learnt each furrow to his brows, and the appearance of fine lines, formed from stress and aging, when emotion twists his features. And when his gaze fell to your lips, warmer than a blue that icy should ever be, they looked like maybe, just maybe, he could want you too.

Now, you’ve taken up one of the tunnel welding jobs. There’s a guard, only half-paying attention, at the entrance, and a damp, mossy wall of stone to your left as you add rivets and force paneling to agree with the curved shapes and haphazardly aligned beams. It’d be easy to not work. Your only monitor is toying with a cigarette and distracted by every patrol that comes by below the stairs.

It helps, though. When the sparks fly, and you carefully merge sheets of thick metal, and place large rivets as best you can; you don’t exactly have the time to endlessly think through Wriothesley’s reactions, and where you stand with him.

The guard leaves you at one point—you think maybe curfew?

But you remain, despite your handiwork growing sloppy, your eyes heavy, and your protective gear (cast aside hours ago once condensation began fogging your vision and sweat slicked your hair to your temples).

You don’t even remember slumping forward with exhaustion.

When you regain your senses, it’s to the sound of your welding gun clanking against the panel beneath your knees. Then, the heavy thud of boots splashing in the puddles where water drips steadily onto the unfinished floor.

“There you are.”

You barely lift your head, blinking blearily at the wall. “Have you been looking?”

It’s no surprise when Wriothesley answers, with what sounds like a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” There’s a sound of his boot scuffing against metal, and you can sense his presence behind you—from both his proximity and the shadow it casts in front of you, barely there in the low light. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Hm.” You catch the implication, the undercurrent of worry, but, for once, you want him to externalize his thoughts for you. You don’t want there to be a chance of you misreading him and projecting your fondness for him into the smallest acts of care. “Have I?”

“C’mon, __,” Wriothesley implores, voice softening as he sweeps a bit of soot from your temple. “You know you have been. Are you upset with me?”

You poke your cheek with your tongue, then sigh. “Not exactly. I’m worried I overstepped.” It stings to admit. “That it’s not okay, even with what you said.”

Wriothesley shifts to kneel down next to you, and it takes every bit of restraint you have to not turn to face him once he’s fully in your periphery.

“You didn’t.” He laughs, but it’s empty, an almost bitter, half-sound devoid of amusement. “I know I can be… difficult. Especially when you put me next to someone like you—you don’t really have issues feeling and expressing.” Wriothesley clicks his tongue and sighs. “Whatever, it’s beside the point. What I’m trying to—what I want to say, is your kindness and happiness is not unwelcome. They’re my issues, not yours.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.” Wriothesley pauses for a bit. You turn your chin a little to sneak glances at him, and it’s like you can see the words sitting on his tongue. There’s a solemness to his face, a cast to his jaw, that feels like you’ve stripped him bare. “My… history with love is not something you had any part in. And I’m really sorry it made you… I don’t know. Think I don’t care, maybe? That I used you?”

He laughs bitterly, muscles in his jaw ticking as he swallows thickly. “I guess I think I don’t deserve it. That’s all. I haven’t been hugged much. I was surprised.”

You frown, go to comfort him and smooth the furrow between his brows with your thumb, but it seems like now that he’s started; the words come on their own accord.

Wriothesley settles more, slumping next to you—so close your thighs touch, and his fingers find a seam on the inside of his jacket that he rolls over and over between his thumb and index finger as he speaks. “Love, affection, care… they’ve all only ever been a means to an end. A way to get ahead at the cost of someone else’s emotions and belief in you. I don’t know if you remember what I’m in here for, but it was parricide.

“I killed my parents. Love, for them, was… a way to make money. To make sure no one asked questions like ‘where’s that boy you fostered now?’ I was loved. I loved… love… them. But when I got too old, too—I don’t even know. Not worth it? They went to sell me to the highest bidder. And it’s hard to reconcile that with the fact that, when I was really young, they brushed my hair before bed and read to me until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“Or that they took my eggs out of the pan before everyone else’s at breakfast, because I liked them a little runnier.” He laughs, and it’s a little watery. When you finally turn fully to look at him, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears. “I ran away, at first, you know?”

“You had to live,” you whisper.

“I know,” Wriothesley said. “But it meant I left every kid they fostered and let them get their hopes up the same way. I found apprenticeships, I scrounged the streets and got into fights here and there. Made my gauntlets. But I never did anything until my little sister was too old for them. I just… it was okay if it happened to me, but not her.

“I was fine with scraps for clothes, only a bulle fruit I plucked off a tree on my stomach. I could take it. But I couldn’t let them do it to her and… it was the only way I could think to stop them. It’s just hard. To hear that I’m loved, and then have them try to dispose of me, and do it again, and again, and again.”

It’s obvious what he means to finish on. How do you reconcile that? How do you feel comfortable being cared for when all that ever was… was a lie?

Wriothesley leans back a bit.

The silence is palpable. He doesn’t turn to leave.

“I don’t know what to say,” you manage. “I mean—thank you for telling me, but…”

“It’s okay.” Wriothesley smiles. He tilts his head and just looks at you for a bit. “You don’t have to find the words to comfort me. I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I’ve done. I just didn’t want you to think you’d done something wrong.”

You turn towards him fully. It’s a relief to hear, but also deeply upsetting. There’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow against a few times. He’s suffered so much, you think. It was impressive that he could still keep going.

“Still, I’m happy you told me and trusted me with it,” you tell him. “You’re not a big sharer.”

He laughs. “I’m not, am I?”

“No. Like a ten-thousand-piece puzzle.”

That makes him snort. You smile, fondness blossoming in your chest. “I’m still sorry if the hug made you uncomfortable, though. Reasons aside, I don’t ever want to make you unhappy.”

“I know.”

“I, um, I want you to be happy too, you know? Not just me.” He grins, studying the nervous twitch to your lips when he held unexpected eye contact for a moment too long. “You deserve it. If I can do anything to make you happier, I want to.”

Silence stretches for a bit. When Wriothesley speaks again, his tone has dropped a bit lower and rougher. “Anything?”

When you meet his gaze, the gleam of humor is gone. There’s a sincerity to them that makes your stomach do flips. “Yeah,” you mumble. “If it’s something neither of us will regret… yeah.”

“I can promise I won’t regret it.” He doesn’t move just yet, restraint tensing every muscle as he maintains the distance. When your gaze flits down to his lips, a little chapped like always, he smiles. “Can I kiss you, __?”

The sound of your name on his tongue makes you shiver.

“Yes.” Your whisper is just as fragile as the thread of restraint between the two of you. Your permission snips it, and you curl into the warmth of his hand along your jaw and the soft, sweet press of his lips to yours. His stubble scratches your skin, and his lips aren’t smooth; but the soft, shaky inhale he takes, and way he melts into you, not pushing to take anything, is perfect.

When you lean into him with a bit more urgency and force as you meld against him, hands moving to cling to his broad shoulders, he smiles. Your noses bump together and your teeth clash against his in a small, blunt annoyance. When you giggle, he swallows the sound with a soft sigh and guides the tilt of your head with the hand cradling your cheek until you slot perfectly against him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

When he finally pulls back for air, your lungs burn for oxygen and your face is warm. Wriothesley isn’t much better—chest heaving a little; cheeks flushed a deep red; and his eyes look a little hazy where they remain trained on your lips.

When you laugh softly, he blinks at you, almost deer in headlights. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

He looks away suddenly, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the next shaky breath he takes. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” There’s an amused lilt to his voice, and he shakes his head to not laugh at his own nerves. “It must’ve been agonizing.”

“It will be, if you don’t kiss me again.”

Wriothesley smiles, the soft, boyish lilt that makes your heart ache. And never the type to purposefully cause harm, he does kiss you again, and again, and again.

–——–

Dating Wriothesley is so normal, you often forget you’re still leagues beneath the sea. It’s easy to imagine buying a home with him, adopting a cat, strolling down side alleys in the city and spending exorbitant amounts of Mora on trinkets; on homemade mugs that have chips in the pottery or uneven glaze that Wriothesley feels guilty getting for a discount, despite their flaws, because the creator spent time making each one, and money on the clay; on plants where you’ll bicker about what windowsill it’d look best in, and which room has the best sunlight for life.

Sunlight. It’d be nice to bicker about that, to have it.

Today, you also imagine watching the fireworks the Palais Mermonia sets off for the new year. It’s a newer tradition. One you’d seen in newspapers weeks after the event—it started a few years back. You’re not sure why. But you imagine it’s beautiful. Lights and colors giving the stars a run for their money, and the glimmering reflection on the ever-rising sea like a scattering of gemstones. It’d be cold, you think, with the spray off the surf carried by the wind, and the night deep enough the cicadas have begun to sing.

You think you’d tuck into his chest, with your head under his chin, just like you are now. Then, drape his coat or a blanket haphazardly over both of you, and stay until the night sky goes still.

“What are you thinking about?” Wriothesley asks, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Life up there,” you murmur, nuzzling closer. He shivers a little when your nose brushes his collarbone. For a man with a Cryo vision, he’s shockingly bad with the cold. “With you.”

“Yeah?” His smile is evident in his voice. “If you could wish for anything, right now, what it’d be?” Wriothesley’s fingers trace along the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up in your back, and you swear it feels like he’s writing I love you every now and then. “I heard people makes wishes and plans for the new year when they do the fireworks.”

You hum, trying to twist to view him a bit better. It’s hard to see him in the low light, but you can make out the shadow his stubble casts and fading patches of lavender from a days-old bruise by his eye. He’s a bit disheveled, but he’s yours. The messiness of his hair, and the threadbare, worn-soft shirt he has on—it’s all reserved just for you.

“I have everything I could want.”

Wriothesley hums when you say that, and then slowly asks, “even if your debt could be paid off, in full? You wouldn’t wish for that?”

You consider him for a moment. “I—of course I want to be done being an inmate, Wrio. But I’ve got you. I don’t mind it taking longer.” I wouldn’t want to leave you alone down here.

He laughs. Then shifts to burrow his head in your hair, placing a kiss on your scalp and inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “Okay,” he agrees. “But say the word, and I’m buying you out.”

It’s sweet—stated like a no-brainer to let you walk the surface again, even if it costs him thousands.

“What about the order you wanna buy?”

Wriothesley snorts. “It can wait. Until you’re free. You can always visit me and check on my progress.”

“Tempting… conjugal visits.”

He pulls back a little to look you in the eyes. “If you want to go, I’ll make it work. I promise. A pretty girl like you should be frolicking in the fields. Not in dorms that smell like mildew.” He scrunches his nose a little. Your last bit of candles can’t light anymore, and it really does smell terrible. You laugh, and he follows with a helpless smile.

“Promise you’ll frolic with me? Whenever we leave?”

“I could be convinced.”

When you smile, Wriothesley’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his laughter quickly fades. You hear the thump of your own heart, and his slow, steady breathing.

“You seem like you could be convinced to do a lot of things.” The joke falls short in the heavy tension suddenly blanketing you both. Then, his fingers tilt your chin up to look at him.

“If it involves you, yeah.” Wriothesley doesn’t even try to argue your point, and he leans close enough you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. “I’m always down.”

His eyes have darkened significantly, and that, along with his proximity and the scent of his cologne wrapping around you, is enough to have your pulse racing.

“You should probably say no to me sometimes. You’ll spoil me.”

Wriothesley smiles, and then he kisses you so sweetly that you forget how to breathe.

“I like you spoiled, silly girl,” he murmurs, dragging his kisses down to your jaw. He’s pleased when your breath hitches, and you make a soft, sweet sound as he makes small bruises along your throat. “You’re always so good f’me.”

“I am?” You ask breathlessly. You’re already pliant from the warm, calloused skin meeting your ribs as his hands slowly ruck up your shirt; but the affirming hum makes you practically melt into him. Wriothesley’s had you like this, sweet and wanting, on his palms many times by now—but it’s the first time he’s left a nearby lamp on.

“‘Course,” he agrees, lowering his head to kiss your breasts. “Look at you. Sweet and pretty.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” you say.

Wriothesley laughs and shakes his head. “That’s okay. I can see how pretty you are.”

You can see how pretty he is, too, when he tugs his shirt off and flings it to who knows where with yours. The scars along his chest, neck, arms, and hands; a small, dark smattering of hair along his pecs and another patch trailing down into his pants; and, more importantly, the sparkle to his eyes and a smile that won’t quite fade from his lips.

“You’re pretty, too,” you tell him. It’s hard to focus on the shy smile he gives you, because his right hand starts tracing your hip bones. “I like seeing you.”

He kisses you again. It’s slow and deep. Your heart aches. “I know, baby, I know.”

He does know. You’ve always made it a point to compliment him, and you can’t count the number of times he’s caught you staring, even during the most mundane tasks, on both hands. Wriothesley knows you think he’s attractive—he knows you even find the scars on the back of his hands charming. You’ve traced the shapes with the excuse of “putting ointment on so they heal right!” more times than he can remember, long after the skin had healed. He knows you like the dimple under his mouth, and how it’s only really visible when he gives a close-lipped smile because you’ve flustered him. He knows you like the crooked set to his nose bridge where a break didn’t heal quite right. You even comment on and embrace the gray streaks in his hair, cooing any time you notice a new silver strand down at the root.

And he loves you. Finds you beautiful. He adores it all. He’ll admire the curve of your hip into your waist, the soft, plush skin that gives under and fills his hands perfectly as readily as he’ll admire your hands; and how they slot into his, or squeeze his cheeks so hard he can’t talk, or card through his hair until he falls asleep. Wriothesley loves the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes when you laugh, and the way your nose scrunches up when you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

When he has you like this, he loves the arch of your spine and unconscious part of your lips. It’s clearer now than it’s ever been, with the golden lamplight making your skin glow. Your back arches when he finally slips pants and underwear away to test how wet you are on his fingers, and your lips pliantly welcome his other hand’s thumb. You nip gently when he trails his fingers away from your clit to your inner thigh to watch the way the muscles quake.

“Sorry, princess.” He’s not very sorry. He wants to catalogue every reaction you could ever have.

“Touch me.” It’s the brattiest you ever really get with him—when you start to impatiently wiggle to meet his touch or demand that he picks up the pace. He doesn’t deny you, even if he should. He does love you spoiled, after all.

“I am,” he reminds, laughing when you scowl. He lets his thumb roll over your clit and sinks his index to the first knuckle with no resistance.

When you moan softly, you can see him swallow and hear his breathing hitch. He slowly and steadily works you open until you take two fingers easily, curling and scissoring inside you until all you can hear is his palm meeting your soaked cunt. It’s obscene. It makes you want him so bad.

“You okay? You’re doing so good for me.” Wriothesley bends to kiss your temple, and you whine.

“Want you, Wrio. ‘m ready.”

He huffs out a laugh, melting against you when you drag him down to kiss you properly. He loves when your nails catch along his shoulders, and he loves more when you insistently tug down at the root of his hair.

“Okay, okay,” Wriothesley says. “So greedy.”

You are greedy. You watch the skin being presented with hungry eyes as he discards his pants and underwear. Your throat goes dry when his thick cock slaps against his stomach, and you can see the slick of his precum shining on his abdomen. He’s been bulking a bit lately—something about a tournament in the fighting rings? You don’t really care about the reason, but you’re grateful. He looks strong and sturdy. His tip is flushed a pinkish-red, and his cock twitches when you spread your legs a bit more open and shift your weight to lean further back.

“Such a pretty girl,” he croons.

The confidence falters the second he presses into you. His hips stutter a little, and he bites back a husky moan when your wet, warm walls welcome him so readily. Wriothesley presses his forehead to yours and steels himself for a moment with a deep breath.

“So deep,” you whimper as he finds a slow, steady pace that grinds his pelvis against your clit. Every time he bottoms out, the friction catches so deliciously it makes it hard to breathe.

His brow furrows at the praise, and you feel him twitch inside you. He kisses you messily—more breathing in each other than proper kisses, because his attention fades from nipping and licking your lip to the steady flutter of your pulse around him, and the arousal that only grows and slicks his skin when it meets yours.

When your back arches from the pleasure, one of his hands moves to brace there. His thumb rubs soothing circles onto the skin as your breath begins to catch more, and your moans grow weak. It’s possessive, too. A grip you know will leave bruises.

You lace your fingers through sweat-slick hair, tangled at the base of his skull.

“Wrio—” you whine brokenly, hips canting in slow, steady rolls that feel mind-numbingly good.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He’s twitching inside you, a telltale sign he’s close, too. The flex of his muscles you manage to see through blurry, teary-eyed vision makes the heat in your stomach burn brighter. “You can wait a second, right?”

“Kiss me,” you plead instead.

He does.

It’ll do both of you in, and you both know it. Your muscles twitch uncontrollably, and his breath pauses before he groans low and slow, spilling inside you right as your peak crashes into you. Wriothesley fucks you through it. He always does, until he’s outright whimpering into kisses because overstimulation has crawled up his spine and everything stings. But he needs you to feel good—he’s desperate for the way your breathing slowly returns to normal, and the way you melt beneath him into the mattress.

Even after he can catch his breath through the heady air, he stays in you until you push him and the heavy crush of his torso off you. He’ll wipe you clean and draw the lightest, coolest sheet over your bodies, and his greedy hands will keep tracing along your spine.

“I love you,” he whispers after a few moments of sated silence. “So much.”

“I know,” you answer. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles under the touch. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and he relishes in your affection. “I’m staying, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Until you can leave, too. What’s the point of being free if I don’t have you up there with me?”

Wriothesley hums. His eyes are soft and sweet. He looks carefree. “As long as you’re happy, I hope you’ll allow me to be greedy and keep you next to me.”

You laugh. “I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind.”

“I’ll be heartbroken if you do.”

–——–

The day Wriothesley’s sentence ends, the administrator runs for the hills.

He’d been challenged to a duel he could never win and was too much of a coward to be imprisoned in the same place he used to grow rich off the inmates’ labor. None of the guards particularly cared. One even ‘dropped’ the master key in Wriothesley’s path when he went to process his release paperwork. He hung it on the same chain his Cryo vision now proudly dangles from.

Taking over the Fortress is relatively easy. He’s earned the respect of the staff, and equal amounts of fear and awe in the other inmates. No one dared to challenge him—or, rather, no one who valued their own health did. Any foolish enough to bristle over Wriothesley taking up the mantle were swiftly reminded why he’d gone nearly undefeated in the underground ring.

The first thing he does, now a free man granted power, is strike your debt.

“You paid far more than 100,000 Mora,” Wriothesley said simply, when you asked why. It wasn’t a secret the value had been changing at will, but it was a relief to hear you could leave.

You didn’t, not yet.

Instead, you stayed to watch him set up an actual arena for fights—with more rules and regulations, so anyone fighting or betting had some level of protection he was never granted as a participant. He fixed the cafeteria. He extended friendly relations and mutual support back to the Palais Mermonia (and you’d teased him about making a friend with the Iudex and Sigewinne, though he protested for a month or two that the Head Nurse would always be more like his mother).

You weren’t happy about meeting the Iudex in a personal capacity at first. But you were quick to learn he was gentle and caring, and that he did not blame you for your actions or find you wrong. Just that the laws did. And as judge, he would defer to them in official capacities. He was charming and earnest. The type of man you’d want Wriothesley to be friends with, and more ammunition to help when Wriothesley got caught in his head (“Neuvillette wouldn’t be friends with you if you were a bad person, you know?”).

Once everything settles, he asks you about leaving more seriously.

“You know you can go back up, right?” Wriothesley’s voice is gentle. It’s a conversation he doesn’t really want to have. He likes having you close, he likes waking up to you, but he knows you’ve wanted to return above the sea since you entered twelve years ago.

“I know,” you tell him, tracing a finger along the rim of your teacup. They were new, courtesy of Sigewinne. “But I like being here with you. It’s not so bad.”

“A glowing review,” he murmurs dryly. “But, really. I have to stay down here now as the administrator. If you want to go back up, don’t stay on my accord. You can visit anytime. I can visit you—”

“I would want to go up with you.”

He nods. “I will. But I will have to work. You can slap me if I ever go too long without visiting. I’m not a coward; I can take it.”

“Will you press charges?” You’re teasing him now, smiling at the way he rolls his eyes. Both of you know you wouldn’t want to hit him and that he’d barely feel it if you did.

“Never, it’s the consequences of my actions. I’ll face them bravely.”

You grin and lean across the table to kiss him.

“I think… you should just get a bed big enough for the two of us. You have a fancy room back there. It can fit two.”

“Even if we don’t have the sunlight?”

“We’ll still get some from time to time,” you giggle. “Surely, you don’t think you’re getting out of your promise to frolic in the meadows with me?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is infinitely fond. “I promised you’d see the sun again someday. Maybe we’ll see the snow, too.”

You give an exaggerated sigh and pinch his cheek. “Guess I’ll have to buy you a scarf then.”

That makes his cheeks turn red. “You’re a fiend.”

“Mm, and all yours.” Wriothesley smiles wider.

For all the time you spent worrying that you’d never see the sun again, you can’t help but laugh softly. You’d made your own light far below the tide, using an amber lamp to light up a bedroom and future just for the two of you.

A voice from behind is the only thing that stops you from thwacking him over the head.

“Come now, leaving so soon?” Jing Yuan hums, his voice a waking rumble in his chest as he shifts in the space behind you. “Surely it’s far too early for even you to start the day.”

“Let go off me, it’s too hot.” You huff, emphasising your words with another attempt to get out of his hold. “You’re not making it any better.”

Jing Yuan gives your waist a squeeze.

“Is that so?”

“Be serious, am I the only one sweating? You’re like a human furnace.”

The mattress appears to shift for a moment, and you’re sure if you had your eyes on the general right now he’d have shrugged. “A small price to pay.” His voice follows, proving you right with his smug response. “I find I sleep much better that way.”

“Well, I must tell you you’re alone in that regard.”

You try to shove an elbow back in rebellion, but when it’s met with a hard wall of Jing Yuan’s muscles and a slow, sleepy chuckle from the man behind you; you assume he couldn’t have felt it as anymore than a tickle.

“You wound me.” He breathes against your skin, making you shudder as he tucks you in closer. “Your feeble attempt to escape is noted but ultimately denied.”

“You’re torturing me here.”

“Torturing you, hm?” Jing Yuan murmurs, stroking his thumb beneath the damp fabric of your shirt. “Is that truly how one would refer to their current position?”

You lose your focus on how warm you are when Jing Yuan’s words are followed by his strong biceps pulling you closer to his bare chest, the movement allowing you to feel the way his cock is already hard and aching against your lower back.

His lips press just short of your ear now, tresses of white hair falling along your face as he presses you into the pillows.

“I have a few other terms in mind that you may find much more fitting.” His breath against your skin makes you shudder. “And you’re not exactly making it easy for me, are you? With all of your movements. I would consider you quite calculated, my dear.”

It’s almost involuntary the way you grind your hips back to meet him.

You find yourself wiggling yourself towards him, clutching at his forearm and despite the way you’re sweating against his form— his skin is warm and grounding. His fingers finally slide beneath the fabric of your shirt, and he digs his hands into the supple skin of your hips to keep you in place when he grinds up against you again.

“I’m sweaty though.” You murmur, pressing yourself back hard against Jing Yuan.

He’s busy pressing kisses down the length of your neck, the warmth of his hands only leaving your skin in favour of shoving down his boxers. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

“I of all people know nothing deters you, Jing Yuan.” You throw a half-lidded look over your shoulder. “Though I must admit you have a way of convincing people.”

His chuckle is a slow release, accompanied by his aching cock springing free behind you and smearing beads of precum along the skin of your thighs when you grind back to meet it.

“I have years of negotiations beneath my belt, my dear.” Jing Yuan reminds before his hands return to your skin, and in one smooth motion he lifts up your thighs enough to pull your damp panties to the side. “Though I would consider this one to be amongst the utmost important.”

Jing Yuan’s lips are back against your ear before the press of his aching cock slides its way through your glistening folds. It’s followed by a slow, languid roll of his hips as the heavy shaft drags along the glistening slick of your pussy, soaking him to the base as the blunt head catches on the hood of your clit and it’s gentle enough to make you twitch.

Your head drops back against Jing Yuan’s chest, and you spread your thighs wider when he pulls you back again. His cock presses against your tight hole now and your voice appears to catch in your throat. “I don’t think Fu Xuan will be happy to hear you take this more seriously than your duties.”

That makes him chuckle again, but he doesn’t respond immediately— too busy placing a few open-mouthed kisses along the dip of your shoulder before he’s suddenly sinking up into you.

“Perhaps it’s best we don’t tell her this one, hm?”

It’s all so lazy but deliberate, the way Jing Yuan groans against your throat while one of his hands move to rub soothing, slow circles into your clit as your pussy clenches around him. Accompanied by the stuffy heat in your bedroom, and how deep he already feels, you feel dizzy and full— arching back against him as you attempt to take even more into your flexing walls.

Until you feel him glide past the soft spot that makes your whole body twitch, and you manage a weak, dreamy whine when he eventually bottoms out. His heavy balls press tight against your ass, and when your pussy flexes again— you suddenly find it easier to ignore the wet press of your back against the general’s chest.

You feel Jing Yuan’s jaw clench when you relax against his body once more, feeling his large, warm palm return to its place beneath your shirt as he takes a slow handful of your breast. A thin layer of sweat meets him there, but instead of cringing away— it appears to allow the soft, lazy back and forth swipe of his thumb over your nipple to feel that much more gentle.

“Shall I consider this negotiation a success then, my dear?” Jing Yuan asks after a moment, his voice sounding much more dazed from where he now rests.

And if you didn’t find yourself equal parts full and comfy all of a sudden, you would surely find that previous fire to thwack him would come back.

But instead you wiggle your hips a bit more, enough to make Jing Yuan’s cock throb from where he’s pressing up against your walls and when it’s enough to make him take a sharp breath. You consider that a victory in itself.

“Atleast offer me a fan to cool down next time.” You tease before settling down again, eyes fluttering with sleep.

“Oh, I am sure that would be no trouble at all.” He responds in kind, his voice rougher with drowsiness but still as sly. “You need only ask.”

If your eyes weren’t closed, you would roll them.

“Go to sleep, Jing Yuan.”