— 06 !

But now that night has fallen, this Layla questions the unexpected showers. Could that old legend be true? But then… why would the Hydro dragon be crying?

Layla will not let a little bit of rain sour her mood. Today has been a great day, after all! "She" had that picnic with Wriothesley, with little cakes and iced tea (much to his chagrin) and fresh fruit picked right from the tree. The unexpected change in weather was far from ideal, obviously, but "she" and Wriothesley had fun in their rush for shelter. Layla did so well despite the sudden disruption.

— 07 !

"You should sleep," Wriothesley whispers, sitting beside her on the divan. A rare visit—yet here she is, waist-deep in star charts and calculations. Her fingers are stained with ink and she thinks her face must be, too, after rubbing her eyes so many times.

"I'm so close," Layla softly argues back. "Just a few more minutes."

"You're going to be exhausted, Lay. It'll still be there in the morning."

"It is the morning," Layla mumbles. Better than admitting the real reason; she wants to finish it herself.

Huffing out a quiet laugh, Wriothesley says, "You're not helping your case."

— 03 !

They are alone in the Duke's office, of course—but when Layla reaches for him, she does so discreetly. She tugs on his idle hand and hers slips into it. Ink-stained fingers intertwine with worn and calloused ones, guiding them lower, until their hands settle between them, hidden neatly under the edge of Wriothesley's desk. They won't have visitors, not for a while. They stay quiet, though, and their clasped hands are a secret, intimate thing. Layla settles back in her chair and lets her eyes flutter shut—and Wriothesley smiles fondly at her, before turning back to his paperwork.

— 04 !

"It's raining."

Layla turns away from the door, looking back to Wriothesley. It's been raining all morning—the kind of warm, wet day she'd expect from the rainforest. But Wriothesley already has his jacket in his hands, standing a ways behind her. Hesitating, so unlike him.

Returning to his side, Layla says, "You told me a legend once, about Fontaine's rain."

"They say the rain is the tears of the Hydro dragon, yes," Wriothesley says—nearly whispers, really.

"Do you think it's true?"

To that, Wriothesley does not answer. "Take this. Stay dry. And… please don't forget to write, okay?"

— 05 !

Wriothesley doesn't talk much about himself. Well, that isn't completely true—he'll chatter on to Layla about tea, or about music or books, or about the daily goings-on in the Fortress. What he never shares is his past. He once mentioned that he was an inmate before he was the Duke, sure, but never why. Clearly, he's on good terms with the Palais, so there's no need to pry, but Layla can't help but wonder. They're something beyond friends yet not quite romantic, and so it's not her place to dig for answers. But the question lingers all the same.

— 01 !

"Don't you ever comb it?" nighttime Layla asks with a huff.

"For your informtion, I do."

The ensuing pause tells Wriothesley everything he needs to know. Without turning, he can see Layla's disgruntled frown and the scrunching of her nose, the way she rolls her eyes and shakes her head—those little quirks that would be unthinkable to the "normal" Layla. This isn't that Layla, though, for all that they share the same body and the same brilliant mind.

Wriothesley lets his head lean back into her hands. With a laugh, she returns to running her fingers through his hair.

— 02 !

Despite her perpetual exhaustion, Layla just won't sit still. She twists her hands and kicks her feet and adjusts her posture over and over and over again.

"Are you sure this is okay?" she asks in a near-whisper.

Wriothesley almost misses it, too preoccupied with carefully parting and sectioning strands of blue-indigo. "Mm? Why wouldn't it be?"

"I— I don't know. It's just… You don't have to."

"I want to," Wriothesley says. It really is that simple. Why would he offer if he wasn't willing? A couple of braids is no trouble.

He supposes there's another side to it, too.

It starts out small. An inkwell, forgotten after a long night spent writing. The fountain pens, discarded on the coffee table, where she hunched over to sketch the stars from memory. Papers upon papers, fallen to the ground in her rush to pack up her things in the morning.

If one asked him a year ago, Wriothesley would have said this: he hardly noticed that clumsy, sleep-deprived scholar. She stood out against the dark, coppery Fortress, sure, and she caused headaches for Sigewinne on a few occasions—but there was nothing remarkable about her. That girl was a prisoner like any other, even for the mere two weeks she spent below the waves.

And then she started sleep-walking.

When Layla plead her case, claimed that it was not her who committed the crime, no one took it seriously. Some alter ego possesses her at night? Completes her work and, apparently, gets into trouble? Fanciful and ridiculous. Those were the lies of someone attempting to escape justice, and the court would not stand for it. It was not a major crime that she committed, but lying made it worse, so down to the Fortress she went.

As it happens, she told the truth, and the other Layla showed her face after nearly a week of silence. She did so during the day, when Layla slumped over the cafeteria table from sheer exhaustion. A few minutes later, she lifted her head again with a smile that was just slightly out of place.

When Sigewinne puzzled over her sudden willingness to visit the infirmary, the other Layla introduced herself. I'm the one who should really be doing the time, she said, but I can't take that long from her.

After a nutrient-packed, strange-looking meal, the other Layla found herself in the Duke's office, and the Duke found himself paying attention.

Now, today, he shakes his head fondly when he notices the things she leaves behind. It starts with papers, things that were meant to be temporary. She brings him tea blends from Sumeru, her favorite Darjeeling and the chai that gets her through the day. Gifts and trinkets, spill across his desk—those ones were largely from the other Layla, of course. Eventually, it's a second toothbrush in the bathroom and her favorite candles in the kitchen.

A relationship like theirs is difficult; with Wriothesley so busy in the Fortress, and with Layla still in school in another nation. They'll get a week or two at a time, maybe a weekend here and there, and then Layla is taking another boat back to the Akademiya to exhaust herself with classes again.

He understands. She needs to finish school.

But when she returns after a month, haggard and dozing on her feet, his heart squeezes and his tongue is heavy. She stumbles right into his arms and they go home.

The other Layla doesn't come out. She sleeps right through the night, not stirring even when Wriothesley climbs into bed right beside her, even when he brushes calloused fingers across the smooth skin of her face, even when he whispers a good-night.

In the morning, they'll wake to a home with clutter on every surface—clutter Wriothesley never imagined becoming so fond of, never imagined having in the first place. They'll eat breakfast in a kitchen of candles and head to an office in the Fortress with shelves of tea and with a desk covered in knick-knacks. They'll love in absences softened by the smallest of items, scattered across every room.

Maybe, one day, Layla will be free from the Akademiya and choose to stay with him. Maybe she'll stay in Sumeru, and their pattern of distance and visits will continue. Maybe they won't last that long anyway, and the point will be moot.