THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO THANK YOU RIKO
Assigning my moots eyeshadow palettes based on their themes/vibes !
CEEEEE :( I MISS YOU SO MUCH AND THANK YOU FOR THE PALLETTE UEUEUEUEYE it's actually screams my biased vibe i mean. i'm glad that i live up to and being perceived with the vibe i want ❤️🩹😭🫂
synopsis: following the growing concern of your missing crewmate, you are eager to discover the truth about the myth of the siren songs that lured pirates into death traps. luckily, your suspected culprit is always around for the time being, guiding you closer to the answer you’ve been awaiting.
contains: pirate au, enemies to (kinda?) lovers, pining (him), freaky merventurine on his gambling mode, gamble, the reader gets dragged into the water, mentions of drowning, death threats, rough language.
wc: 3.7k
forenotes: hey-ho folks, i am back with a pirate x mermaid dynamic fic cuz um, i was starving… wasn’t familiar with writing about pirate life but i tried my best… probably would never mention that i was blessed with the inspiration after reading that one merventurine series of @/havanillas. heh. yeah, never. grits teeth.
greatest thanks to my dear @/rainswept @/akutasoda @/theother-victoria and @/azuresaqua for proofreading and editing this little silly fic!
Researching about a merfolk is what you least expect to find yourself doing.
Your hat sits beside the stacks of sketches, scribbles and notes written on papyrus. You are spacing out from the blackboard tangled with pins and red strings. Your fingers nudge your chin, ruminating.
“Captain… captain!”
Rapid footsteps click on the wooden planks and get louder towards your office. You anticipate the door slamming open without a single knock… again.
“This better be important.” You glare over your shoulder towards the intruder panting slightly at the door, apologetically composing himself. Your displeased look terrifies him, intimidated further by the way you swiftly turn around, holding onto a canary-coloured parchment. The look of suspicion cast upon him makes him wait for your permission to speak.
“What is going on?” you inquire.
“It’s that creature again… captain…” the poor sailor says, shivering slightly, his voice shaky. Screw the way your eyes lit up at the mention of a certain someone.
You quickly compose yourself, inferring the situation from what he is talking about—a merfolk, lurking somewhere in this ship, yet again. You can see the faith you put in your crewmates' playful words and determination days ago dissipate quickly—what a bold declaration of eliminating them to extinction while a dear sailor is standing here at the door, trembling.
Merfolks, sirens. To you, they are the same irritating enemy to be against. Treacherous, unknown creatures deep in the core of the sea, cruel and ever so deadly, the melodies they orchestrate result in anyone gullible enough to listen disappearing forever. You hadn’t believed such words of mouth, no matter how many times the drunkards at the tavern have warned you, nor how often they’re mentioned in the poetic lyrics bards sing—if only one of your reliable crewmates didn’t fall into the dark sea one night and never came back.
Truthfully, you would address it as a fascinating scene rather than just a horrid witness. How could you ever forget that glowing and piercing gaze beneath the eerie rustling waves, mesmerising blond hair with siren ear sprinkling dewdrops—that haunting wicked grin rising from the water while you watched closely with a mix of hesitation and intrigue? The creature waved goodbye with its radiant tail, the magical colour matched with his ears, splashed the saltiness around and disappeared even in the dimmest light the moon shed, confirming your suspicion of a callous merfolk tale.
Aventurine, his name, is the only record of him you had. And the way he looked at you every time since sent shivers down your spine. Werewolves of the underwater world, you must correct that, though; because as irritating as you want to admit, up close, you’re still bewildered the same by the mystique and beauty of his, no matter how many times you’ve encountered him before.
But right now, you are on your nerves at the alarmed crewmate peeking cowardly from behind you at the dark basement, something splashy can be heard down there, and he insists that it isn’t the sound of your wine barrels colliding due to the rocking ship.
“Captain, I swear! I was in the food cellar mere minutes ago to grab the ingredients needed for the crew’s dinner when suddenly the lights went out, and I heard some sort of animal humming behind the shelves.”
“Laurie…” you say, trying not to sigh. “Tell the others to get their earplugs, I’m going down there to investigate. Activities shall not be postponed due to this trivial matter, are we clear?”
Goodness… being without you could be the end of the world for them, wouldn’t it?
The storage basement is dark. You bring the antique lantern up, making sure that the door on top of your head is fully closed before stepping further into the woody-smelling room.
Indigo watchful eyes stare at your every movement, his smile mischievous. In the deafening silence, you can only hear the sound of your boots clicking against the wooden plank and a faint pouring of water echoing. Intentionally, he catches your attention by the way his tail splashes around, rivulets of seawater spill on the floor combining into a trail, leading you to where he is.
You swing the golden light source around, indistinct soft breathing getting louder and clearer every time you take a step, until it sheds on a living figure you realise you’re at a dangerously close distance to.
“Boo.” His webbed hands spread wide with a devilish grin, watching you suppressing a shriek as you jump back.
“Goddamn it, you fiend.”
Then, there goes a frisky laugh, a melody, graceful and tempting. He sits beside the lower window with his tail wiggling within the waves, lazy eyes staring right back into your soul, and a thin smile that makes your eyes twitch in annoyance.
“Aventurine.” You scoff, disbelieving. “I see my ship is an easy target for you hoarders and assassins to aim for, is that right?”
“Not my fault that you fail to take responsibility for securing it,” he lifts a rope, one you use to seal the large window right where he is sitting, now broken. Your eyes then land on the exposed entrance, made for a whole boat to pass through and escape in case of emergencies, then back to that arrogant smile written across his face. Now that would explain why he is sitting there so casually.
“And wouldn’t it be wild to assume that I killed your people? You don’t even know where they are…” he says wryly, shrugging mockingly with his eyelashes batting at you.
This fishy son of a bitch.
“Cut the crap, get straight to the point,” you say, feeling your face grow hot at his bluntness. “You aren’t here for bounties or treasures, are you? Tell me, who the hell is it this time?”
Aventurine tilts his head. His flagrant bell bracelet rings along the rumble of his body as he chuckles, the constant tide of waves crashing underneath his tail. Fuck those lazy eyes and that playful demeanour. You could just pick up your dagger and kill him right there, if it weren’t for—
“So invested in getting to know me better, aren’t you? How adorable is that?”
Pretty when angry, that’s what you are. Your scowling and red face, slightly parted plump lips tempting. He got the powerful pirate captain of some ship wrapped around his finger, all in the impotence of trying to uncover the whole truth of the missing crewmate, so is the fascinating myth about his species.
Emboldened by the sudden excitement, the merman narrows his eyes, and an excellent idea comes up, he gestures for you to get closer to him by leaning down, and you roll your eyes before obliging.
“I have a deal…” he starts, his webbed fingers nudging your chin. He chuckles lightly when you swat his hand away. “If you are so concerned with what the missing sailor had gone through, why not find the answer by yourself? I can help you with that.”
And if you do not read his implication wrong, Aventurine wants more than just a simple demonstration of how a victim would fall for the songs. Fucking hell. What kind of a deal is that? You almost laugh out loud, sardonically. He’s going to drown you, and you know it.
“Alright, stinky fish, listen,” you say, wincing in disdain. “Who do you think I am? Some gullible bitch who is easily swept up in your charms and that pretty face? Oh, please… you humour me.”
“How about I—”
You quickly pull out the dagger attached to your thigh strap, wielding it in the tense air. One blink and it is positioned by his neck, threatening. But Aventurine is far more amused by the enormous audacity rather than intimidated. He finds it—he finds you—rather appealing.
“—cut your pretty throat out so you can’t sing those so-called beautiful lullabies and lure the innocent again, how’s the sound of that?”
Your eyes widen at his unfazed chuckle, heart hammering loudly in your chest at the mere interaction of his cold, tender hand on yours. You shiver at how he intentionally traces a finger around, his grin devilishly challenging.
“I know you wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.” He smirks, his voice dripping with sweet honey sarcasm. “You won’t find any other merfolk as amiable as I am, better think wise.”
Aventurine thinks it’s cute that you called him pretty. Your venomous tongue if intervened with the right treatment, he eventually finds your words to carry no weight along them. You tempted him badly and it is extremely embarrassing to admit how the thought of pinning you down at every possible moment had gotten him zoning out far too many times mid-hunting, and the fact if he doesn’t withdraw to the sea right at this moment, you would be left no chance to consider his offer but just be wrapped around and dragged into the sea with him.
“In any case… do think about it, my offer.” Finally, the wretched merman breaks eye contact, pulling away from your intense stare. “If there is a change of mind, call my name and I’ll be at your disposal.”
Siren Aventurine is almost too proud of the fate weaved for him. He never lost, not even once. When he opened up and offered you the deal, he had expected everything to go according to the scheme so brilliantly. He understands his prey enough to be certain that your curiosity couldn’t be that tiny to restrain you from uncovering the shrouded mystery.
Cunning and malice as he is, it isn’t a surprise that one night he rises due to your call, his name whispered by the quarterdeck where you are standing there, all pretty and a little bit anxiously awaiting. He knew he’d won. And Aventurine never finds anything more exciting than getting exactly what he wants. And you, ardently, are what he wants.
“Much obliged for your persistence, princess.” He chuckles beneath you. “But willing to abandon the whole ship for a mere assumption, are you really thinking straight?”
Ignoring his playful mocking words, you inhale deeply. They are words to affirm your decision and discourage you if any traces of hesitation appear in how you act. Yet, he found none. Surely, you must have gone mad. But something… something strange, something vague in your mind provokes you, even when you are only fifty per cent sure of your return, you are still urged to do it.
“You won’t hurt me.” You managed, sounding almost ridiculous.
But it only makes his devilish grin grow wider, reaching his ears. You’re gambling your life away to who you disdained, yet that accepting attitude stirs doubts within him whether you truly meant it when you said you would loathe him for eternity.
“Trusting me so easily like that, I don’t remember meeting this side of you before, captain.”
Your dense facade somewhat wavers as you look back at a few of your companions, those who stand with anxiety and concern, unwilling to let go of their only leader but too cowardly to disrupt their own decision; at this point, affronted as it may sound, everybody still agrees that your determination isn’t exactly a clever one (or, almost too foolish to be precise.) even though thorough calculations for the worst scenario has been planned—the next captain and more so.
Suspicion regarding your heedless attitude recently truly convinces them further that the whole situation isn’t just simply adventure out of curiosity, you are just… the next unfortunate victim of the scandalous sea creature. But you knew yourself better: you are, admittedly and consciously bewitched.
“Come, then, if you’re ready. walk on that plank.” His muses echo sweetly. “Don’t be afraid, darling, to confirm your assumption, I promise I won’t let you get hurt.”
The last look you throw at the angry crew is soothing, especially at the rather worried but encouraging Laurie, asking for a silent allowance of your reckless behaviour, which he nods, hoping it won’t turn out as a regrettable mistake.
Then, a silent sigh. “just… get this over with.” You’re unsure if the jolt of electricity inside of you is fear or excitement, it burns, and despite being on the verge of failing your pals’ expectations, you find yourself involuntarily stepping forward onto the plank, moonbeam embrace slowly envelops your senses.
Underneath, aventurine starts singing. His awaiting gaze is evident with undeniable excitement as he swims around, bringing his scaled arms up to make sure you understand that he will catch you when you fall. Undeniably, words sung seem to be orchestrated with some kind of drug, maddeningly addicting—you abhor it.
Everyone holds their gasps in as you jump, in the blink of an eye with your own tight shut, a loud splash of water rocks the ship gently, the surface bubbling with white foams and bubbles and you are nowhere to be seen.
“Arr… guys, should we start panicking?” Speaks a doubtful and perplexed sailor clinging onto a canon with their eyes glued down to your last traces in the water.
“We’re all doomed!!” Wails another one, holding their face in exaggerated pain—one like The Scream painting they hoarded.
You’re gone… at least for now. the remaining bubbles popped on the surface and the water returned to its intact state like nothing had happened at all.
Eyes wide open, panicking. Bathing in the icy cold water intertwined with the enchanting moonlight, you bestir. Your waist is secured tight, his slippery tail tying it like how a boa would choke as he dives down deeper. You could see the surface getting farther and farther away, reflecting the blue luminescence in the haziness that filled your vision.
His muffled singing, the melody echoes in the back of your mind, roots deep a beautiful, comforting and earnest ballad in you and gradually ceases your violent struggle despite the pain of water filling your lungs.
You can’t breathe.
You don’t want to die.
Vision blurry, all you can feel is yourself stop sinking deeper into the dark void underneath, cold hands caress your cheek gently as the merman hovers around you, touching the tears you weep merging with the ocean.
Is it at your last minute of life that you hallucinate, or for the first time does his wicked smile soften without malice?
Aventurine draws you closer, his hand rests on your waist as you subconsciously cling to him, he watches your face with amusement. He takes a moment to take in the most divine thing in front of his eyes, his most wanted prey is right here in the grip of his tail, still and pretty, eyes half-shut, looking so vulnerable with those kissable parted lips. The merman smiles triumphantly before abruptly rewarding himself by crashing his lips against yours, the one thing he has been dying to do for a long time.
What a perverted coward… But his intentions worked, he saved you; you gape out air not long after, Aventurine feels the weight of your fingers tightening on his shoulder as you regain consciousness, desperately and violently dipping your head further into his face, stealing breaths from his mouth. It feels warm—his breath, his presence, half somewhat very human and strangely, comfortingly familiar.
You feel the arch of his lips against yours, seeming to laugh at your shameful behaviour just now; but to hell with it, you wouldn’t deny that you don’t hate it even just a single bit.
You hold a breath when you pull back, frowning, but he can see the faintly pink hue spreading across your puffed cheeks. Aventurine smiles and cocks his head with a raise of eyebrow.
“You’re not supposed to stay awake during this.” he swats your hovering hair back, taking notes of your slightly swollen lips, not intending to waste any of your oxygen talking, you’ve never looked more ethereal in his opinion and that makes his heart throb.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he laughs. “Or don’t, if you’re not afraid.”
Your confused gaze amuses him, and then he holds you close against his chest, getting prepared for what-who-knows, and it is rather unexpected how you immediately feel the pressure knocking into you when he starts gliding fast in the water. Blood rushes in your veins and your pulse quickens, your eyes squeeze shut in the sense of anxiety and exhilaration.
Do sirens swim this fast…?
The swim lasts only a minute or two, and you are just as dumbfounded as the new experience of swimming with a merman continues to amaze you.
Is this truly what happens to the victims of their siren songs…?
You are still trying to recall and adapt, millions of questions flood your brain and it feels overwhelming, your cheeks pressed securely against his chest, evidently flushed at the proximity.
These fish… kissed them in the process of their kidnapping!?
You feel your cheeks hot at the thought, smoke blowing out of your ears whereas Aventurine cannot stop his constant laughter at your adorable curiosity. On a secluded island far away from the ship, Aventurine gently places you on a cliff, your clothes and hair are soaked and taste like the ocean.
“No. We don’t just ‘lure’ people and then kiss them, that’d rather be indecent,” he smiles at you and lazily floats around where you sit.
“So, was I the first…?” You trail off, trying to look casual while removing your boots and attempting to dry them, the loud thumping in your poor chest is also being turned a blind eye on.
“Unprecedentedly, yes.” With his chin in the palm of his hand, Aventurine stares back at your bewildered expression with a smug grin.
“Why, though?” You managed to ask.
A fascinating trait, the siren songs drift “victims” into deep and blissful slumber, where, they stand between the barrier of life and death, counting down by mere minutes until their last breaths. It then depends on a merfolk’s ability to speed-swim and bring them to the destination they’ve longed for; if the merfolk can’t make it, the one’s body and soul will belong to the mysterious ocean for eternity.
“Let’s say that I got carried away and wasted your precious time there. If I didn’t do it, by the time you got here, I’d only be carrying your dead body.” Aventurine cracks a joke, he hopes his explanation and the excuse suit you well.
“It is… truly a gamble…” you swallow hard, digesting the enormous amount of information which has just been dumped on top of your head.
Wait… does that mean…?
“Yes. ones who had been involved and addressed as ‘victims’ discovered the true story, and so far, none of them were harmed under our claws, nor reports of drowning incidents from lands were published.”
Your missing crewmate. He is still alive!
“You’re asking about that fella, huh?” he tilts his chin with his webbed fingers, recalling. “Well, the last time we met he asked me to bring him back to the coast, his reasons were heavily criticising the captain he once served and something to do with retiring from being a pirate.”
You listened carefully with your fingers entwined, ruminating. He was a very reliable companion, indeed, yet you two never really got along well with each other, you never knew the day you and he fell out was also the day he lost it and reached out to a merfolk. That guy knew about the false myth the entire time!
“My goodness, darling… what have you done to him, hmm?”
You shoot a glare his way at the teasing tone, wiping the wet hair that sticks to your face and sighing. There were grudges on the ship, undeniably; you still vividly remember how cold and intolerant your eyes looked the night that sailor went missing as that night was the least to be easily forgotten anyway. Hell, you felt guilty about how you acted, even.
“Where is he now? Back on land?” Aventurine nods, and you sigh again, massaging your little temple. “I’ll find the chance to talk to him after this.”
The topic of that aggressive man is done for, returning the awkward silence between you two (at least to you), only the soft zephyr and the gentle whooshing sound of the waves crashing glowy sparkling dust on the coastline can be heard.
Being around Aventurine on a nice and tranquil night is oddly comforting, but you cannot bring yourself to look into his beautiful eyes, ones glistening with mischief and the once used-to-be irrational nature. Then it all turned out that you had misjudged him with your prejudice against sirens. Aventurine was right about being the most amiable merfolk of them all, he was rather helpful on the contrary of how evil he may be rumoured. You swallow, why does he look even more attractive just now…? It must be the weird situation you both are in, that’s all, it feels like two lovers are having a tryst under the beaming of the moonlight, dimly lit and undoubtedly romantic.
Aventurine notices your rather wistful and confused look, and with his most endearment manner of a gentleman could do to his partner, his fingers flick your forehead, pulling you back on earth.
“What’s up? Ashamed of yourself for almost devouring me whole down there, huh?” he attempts to lighten up the mood, and he succeeds.
“Wha– Hah!? Screw you, Aventurine! You damn perverted fish kissed me first!” There it is, the scowl returns and your face heats up, you stammered.
“Don’t you look divine being this feisty?” he continues to tease. “I should work you up more often, then. You’re simply irresistible.”
Okay. Fuck him actually.
Your next retort never slips out of your mouth when Aventurine clutches your waist and unexpectedly pulls you back into the water with him, messing you below the surface. Well, at least you tried.
You gasp for breath as soon as he brings you back on, arms wrapping around you and chuckling teasingly as you taste the salt on the tip of your tongue, panting. And also, fuck the proximity and how you cling to him looking far too intimate for an enemy.
“Should I shut you up with a kiss next time?” he smirks, tilting his head.
Perhaps he won, yet again—succeeded at getting exactly what he wanted and he is certain that his ‘victim’ this time has also submitted to him, basically at how you never protest when a soft kiss is placed on your left cheek. He’d be the death of you someday, you swear.
PAIRINGS: gn! Reader x Mr Reca (from the hit game HSR!) Modern AU where Reca is a hotshot director and reader is a rising super star.
SYNOPSIS: Not so secret dating AU (they become public in the end) + tooth rotting fluff + SMAU (if you squint, like heavily squint. No there's only one so you can't even consider it as so but hey it's there TT) + not proofread (apologies for the mistakes) WC: 1.6k
BREAKING NEWS: Famous play director Mr. Reca caught in arms with his latest acquisition?
JUST IN: Who is this Mystery Person? Hearsays and gossip are bubbling to the surface as the newest photos of award winning Mr. Reca and his newest prize leaked online.
RUMORED TO BE: The Famous rising star—?!
“This is madness.” Your agent mutters for the nth time in a row clearly panicking. It was quite comical to see him pacing back and forth looking like he's about to have a heart attack right then and there.
What was even more comical was the fact that across from his frantic state was you, hands properly poised on your lap, an easy smile drawn, and chin tilted upwards as the make-up artist busied themselves with your face.
“It is a misunderstanding” You replied, glancing at the multiple tabloids placed on the quaint mahogany coffee table, your voice taking a light tone as your lips curl into a smile that could be plastered on every billboard in this damned city.
“It is reckless. You both were reckless. You told me you both were going somewhere private- oh this is a disaster.” A huffed laugh escaped your lips.
“You. How are you so calm about this entire ordeal?” As the make-up artist finishes up the final touches she grins back at you to which you return. As she tidies up the different shades of rogues and eyeshadow palettes you finally turn to meet your worrywart of an agent.
“Because these are measly tabloids and those are all just rumors” a shrug as you stare at the blurry photos of you and your ‘assumed’ lover.
“The photos-”
“-Don't even look like me. Firstly whoever took it chose such an unflattering angle—” The photos were clearly taken by some amateur, it was all blurred lines and unfocused blotches of colors and the lighting was horrid. “If they were going to expose something, could they not have taken it somewhere with more light? I look—”
“Your entire career is hanging by a loose thread and you're worrying about the tabloid photos and the lighting?!” Your agent thinks back to the times where he wasn't assigned to you, the times where the most stress he's ever had was a wrong coffee order.
Sure he loves you to death but the reason for all his headaches came in a conveniently wrapped you-shaped package and now it apparently comes with a buy one take one deal.
“My career is fine. The photos are terrible. And it's precisely why we can just deny I have anything to do with this entire conundrum” You say pointing to the blurry blob that is supposed to represent ‘you’.
“just keep denying it, say it was photoshopped by some fan, you know scandals come and go quickly” But the truth is. A part of you didn't want to deny it, the small selfish part of you wanted to just confirm all the rumors and gossip by clicking on the simple heart-react to any one of the endless tabloids on social media.
“And knowing Mr. Reca he'll probably get another rumored lover in a span of a couple days—” your words tasted bitter as they left your tongue even if it came off as a joke to ease up your agents anxiety.
“Is that really what you think of me, my darling star?” A new voice joined in the fray and you jumped when you felt two arms circle easily around your waist and the smell of old parchment paper and leather surrounded your senses.
“Mr. Reca.” Your agent lets out an exhausted sigh at his presence, as if the director being here added an additional load on his shoulders. The newest load that was currently taking solace in nuzzling his face against the crook of your neck.
“Dearest?” Your voice came next—pleasantly surprised, shouldn't he be at his filming site right now?—and you can almost physically feel how the other melted against your figure, arms tightening gently and bringing you into a back hug.
“What's this about me getting a new lover in a few days?” He mumbles softly, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout and you can feel it touch the thin skin of your neck making your heartbeat pick up its pace ever so slightly.
“Well…” you drawl out as you try to detach yourself from him but that only results in him squeezing you tighter against him, his face still against your neck (which was now growing hot at the constant contact)
“You aren't Penacony’s most eligible bachelor for no reason” a small jab disguised as a tease. You can't help it, the small pinch of jealousy that seeds itself in your very very patient heart.
He was a celebrity, he was stupidly handsome, stupidly charming, and that meant that he had everybody fawning and bending over backwards for him. Not that he paid attention to any of those frivolities always rudely turning the other cheek. It still didn't help the rumor mill from cooking up another theory about him dating some random celebrity figure and it didn't help that sour feeling you get whenever you read about it online.
Although It did help that you were dating the real thing, Penacony's darling director. Wrapped tightly around your fingertips.
It helped very much to know that most of his films were love letters directed at you. Directed for you. In which his films would always start off with a cursive ‘for my darling muse’—it was his signature tell and something that was known by almost everyone in Penacony.
There were endless theories that surrounded those four sudden words that appeared in his recent best selling films.
You spent hours sifting through all the comments with a small knowing smile. You were there throughout the entire process (saved for the parts that required you to actually be seen with him) so you knew the genius that was him, how he somehow managed to turn the films into an allegory about the two of you. Delivered with flowery words, plot twists, and breathtaking cinematography.
“I'm the most eligible bachelor?” He mused with a faint smirk before pressing a soft chaste kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, pulling away slightly to allow your heart to return back to its normal rhythm. His carmine eyes full of mirth and arrogance at the title. You are sure he's seen those words and his name written in tandem to each other multiple times, to him it's just words written by some amateurs but hearing it from you turned them into ammunition he can use.
“The most annoying one too” a small huff leaves your lips making him let out a chuckle, the rumble of his chest felt against your back. You see your agent suppress an eyeroll, gathering the tabloids before making up some random excuse to allow the two of you some allotted alone time.
“I take it you saw the news?” His tone was lofty as if he was enthralled by the whole prospect of getting found out by the public. With his hands positioned on either side of your waist he turns you around so that he's able to scrutinize your facial expressions, holding you close to him as sways you both to an imaginary beat. The action softens your heart and you follow along with him.
A scoff. “I'd hardly call it news. Just the usual chatter amongst the tabloids” His eyes search your own sincerely as if trying to gouge out every individual thought you have conjured up in that complicated brain of yours.
“I wouldn't call it chatter if it's true.” He says with a small smug grin and your eyes roll back, both of you are smiling fondly at each other, swaying in each other's arms.
‘I wouldn't call it true if we're hiding it.’ the sentence that hung with the few pin pricks of silence.
“I'm sure it'll blow over soon” and he hums in acknowledgement at your statement, the small furrow of his brow an indication of his disapproval. He holds your hand in his bringing it up to press a kiss against your knuckles.
“I don't want it too” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another fleeting kiss. Your brow raised curiously at his words, carefully mulling it over before asking-
“You're implying-”
“We go public about it. About us.” and boy did his eyes light up at the idea, similar to a fuse sparking before escalating and eventually causing a dramatic explosion. You always have admired that look of his, a sort of crazed expression that made every fibre of your being tingle like a thousand firecrackers and soon you found himself sharing his excitement at the prospect.
He smiles, presses one last kiss against your knuckles and moves to twirl you around, a small laugh bubbles out of you as you adhere to the director's movements. You could see him grinning again before finally ending this silent waltz of his with a stolen kiss from you.
“We'll cause quite the scene” his tender lips pull away from yours with that telltale smirk.
“A scene? Why not a whole blockbuster while we're at it?”
BREAKING NEWS: From Secret Rendezvous to Sharing Clothing? What does this entail?
JUST IN: Our Rising star spotted wearing a shirt a size big for them? A shirt that we've seen the famous director wear multiple times?!
HOT TOPIC: “it's not that we actively wanted people to know about us, we just stopped trying to hide it” — Mr. Reca [his latest interview]
AN: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE !! STARTING OFF STRONG WITH A RECA KISSER FIC WOOPIEE + He's been on my mind (koue can confirm) + it's actually shocking how I'm posting left and right, watch this disappear when school comes back ⚰️+ cooking up another Reca fic as we speak + HAVING A CONSISTENT WRITING STYL IS HARD GRGRGRG+ I'm still tryna figure out this writing bit (I hope this wasn't too all over the place ?) but I hope y'all enjoyed it^^ reblogs, comments and likes are much appreciated 𐙚
content: 13.3k words, lovers to exes to hopefully lovers again, reader goes to jail, mixed feelings (i hope i wrote them decently), murder, poison, lots of investigation
summary: a singular trial is all it takes to tear your world apart. after being framed for an atrocious crime, you're sent to the fortress of meropide by the decree of your own lover. however, as new evidence emerges years down the line, you're offered freedom at last — the only catch being that you must confront the real culprit (and your complicated feelings for the man who broke your heart).
a/n: merry (late?) christmas @https-sourlimes!! i'm your secret santa. i am SO sorry about the wordcount; i got carried away while writing. i really hope you enjoy! <3
Happiness is a fragile ephemerality.
One word is all it takes to set your world ablaze in a frenzy of roaring flames, once-comforting hues of warmth roaring in a final performance of oceanic havoc. A numb horror manifests in subtle shivers that wrack your body, piercing your very soul with its glacial frostbite. Echoes reverberate within your mind.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, [name] is guilty.
Neuvillette’s words seem to ring in the air, long overstaying their welcome as they persist in a buzz of illusory ostinatos over a backdrop of stunned silence. No one stirs as the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers unfolds before them. Instead, they watch with bated breath, never once daring to intervene, allowing every act of fate’s cruel masterpiece to play out in flawless tandem.
Nothing feels real until the moment the guards slip a pair of handcuffs around your wrists. Gradually, a sense of panic envelops your senses, prompting you to desperately turn to where Neuvillette had been standing. Fear begins to well up in the pit of your stomach.
You need his help.
But when your eyes land on the spot where your lover had once been, you find that he is all but gone.
Emptiness is all that remains as you’re escorted down to the depths of Meropide.
“Wriothesley,” you greet the man in front of you politely as you step into his office.
It’s only six in the morning, but you were unceremoniously dragged out of your bed earlier when you were informed that Wriothesley had sent for you. A few years ago, you would have complained about how rude it is to rouse someone from slumber without warning. However, after spending thousands of days in prison, you’ve grown to understand that societal norms have no place within the lifeless metallic walls of Meropide.
Everything runs on incentive alone. Coupons are all that matter within the underground prison, and as such, most inmates spare less than a thought towards moral obligations and frivolous sentiments. It’s a home for some of Fontaine’s most infamous criminals, for crying out loud! Only a fool would expect pleasantries to have any place in this bleak world.
Your train of thought is interrupted as Wriothesley gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.
“Take a seat, [name],” he says, his voice gruff yet comforting.
He’s been your only companion throughout your time in prison, as the other inmates have been a little too uncouth for your taste. Although Wriothesley tries to pretend he simply wants to be your friend, you know he has ulterior motives. You know the reason why he’s always checking up on you so often — why he’s been suspiciously interested in your day-to-day life.
Someone you’d rather not think about put him up to this.
Someone you used to love.
(You still remember the crystal raindrops that kissed your skin mere moments before you were taken underground. You wouldn’t put it past him to watch you from afar.)
“Is something up, Wriothesley?” you inquire.
The more he talks the better, you decide. Right now, anything is better than silence because silence is a harbinger of spiraling thoughts and unpleasant recollections. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drown the mantras gnawing at the edge of your conscience in a sea of cascading words.
“Brace yourself,” Wriothesley warns, “This is gonna be a tough one to stomach.”
You nod hesitantly. Wriothesley usually keeps your conversations lighthearted and casual, so you’re absolutely certain that he’s serious this time. His foreboding preface sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you steel your nerves and meet his gaze. Irises beaming with fading moonlight scan your eyes for any traces of hesitation, scrutinizing every sentiment that graces the windows to your soul.
“I’m ready,” you reassure him.
Although Wriothesley raises an eyebrow when he hears the tremble that unsteadily articulates your growing anxiety, he continues on. One thing about Wriothesley you’ve grown to appreciate is the fact that he never pries into your affairs (at least not openly).
“Alright,” he sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Tension becomes tangible as momentary silence fills the atmosphere; it’s almost deceptively peaceful. Every transient second feels more akin to an eon spent in stagnation as suspense gnaws at your conscience. As much as you hope for the hush to dissipate with every fibre of your being, you also dread the moment your false utopia will shatter.
“Is it really that bad?” you make the mistake of asking Wriothesley.
The grimace that adorns his weary features tells you all you need to know. Before your mind can run through all the possibilities in a frenzied delirium of panicked theories, Wriothesley finally speaks up.
“It’s about him,” he clarifies.
You immediately know who he’s talking about.
It’s funny. A few years ago, you used to speak his name in a hushed tone, filled with admiration and brimming with ardor. Every whisper used to feel adoring, almost reverent, and as such, you had mistakenly believed your love was akin to an all-enduring everblaze, a crimson flame of passion that would burn bright and persevere through all.
The irony is nearly laughable. Dying embers and hollow sentiments are all that remain now. His name has become a taboo, a word that feels all-too-foreign as you attempt to fill in the silence.
“Neuvillette,” you whisper shakily.
An unpleasant ringing seems to manifest in your ears as all the memories you’ve been trying to repress ebb and flow in a wave of aquamarine recollections. You’re aware he’s always been an overwhelming presence, yet it becomes all the more obvious as thoughts of him invade and overload your mind.
Wriothesley confirms your suspicions in the form of a solemn nod. To your surprise, his steely grey eyes soften for what feels like the first time since you’ve met him, a gentle warmth stirring beneath layers of permafrost.
Great, so your situation is so abysmal that even Wriothesley is starting to feel sympathetic.
“What does he want?” you manage to breathe out.
A part of you doesn’t want to face your ex-lover ever again in this lifetime. And yet despite it all, your heart screams for closure, resolving to remain unrelenting in its desires until every loose thread of your tragedy has been tied up neatly. You don’t know what to hope for at this point.
“You remember the poisoning case from a few years ago?” Wriothesley questions you.
It takes all your willpower to resist the urge to scoff.
“Who would forget the murder that changed their life forever?” Your voice comes out wry, bitterness intricately working its way into each inflection. Despite your attempts to exercise restraint, you find that your emotions are beginning to overtake rationality.
“Alright,” Wriothesley says hesitantly, “then I guess there’s no better time to break the news.” The suffering in his drawn-out sigh is palpable. “Suspicious new evidence related to the case has emerged recently. The Marechaussee Phantom is beginning to suspect that there’s more to it than what they initially found,” Wriothesley starts. Before he can continue, you interrupt him.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Right.” With an exasperated click of his tongue, Wriothesley moves on. “That’s where you come in. Since you’re so closely-linked with the events that occurred that day, the Iudex has specifically requested your help in the investigation. I take it the possibility of freedom is incentive enough?”
You huff. “Seriously? He has the audacity to ask for my help after all this time without so much as a word? Not even freedom could convince me to work with that absolute — !”
The stern look that manifests within Wriothesley’s sterling irises is enough to prompt you to pause. Although he doesn’t vocalize his concerns, the diamond-esque glimmers of worry that manifest in his eyes speak volumes. Don’t say something you might regret.
So instead of continuing on, you allow yourself a single sigh — an attempt to alleviate all your frustration in a single exhale.
“What I meant was, I’m not sure I could work with the Iudex in any official capacity,” you say, gritting your teeth lest any unsavory words find a way to slip out of your mouth, “given our… complicated history.”
Wriothesley shakes his head, a subtle showing of his displeasure at being caught up in a lover’s quarrel. You can’t really blame him. Any bystander would feel beyond vexed if they were tasked with piecing together the fading ruby fragments of a once-blissful relationship.
“I thought you might say that,” he responds, raising a hand to massage his temples. At the moment, the bags under his eyes appear more prominent than ever, and you begin to wonder how much grief your personal issues with Neuvillette will cause poor Wriothesley. “That’s why you have a week to decide.”
You narrow your eyes to meet a gaze woven from the essence of dimming moonbeams. Wriothesley stares you back, unflinching in his poise.
“Good luck getting me to change my mind,” you scoff. “I’m not facing him ever again.”
A pause.
Silence threatens to consume all under its weight, and you’re left wondering how nothingness can feel so heavy. Wriothesley’s nonchalance seems to disperse, vanishing in the midst of the tense ambience. Now you’re absolutely sure you’re in for a heartfelt conversation — an anomaly amongst the casual paradigm the two of you have been defining over the past few years.
“I’m not great with all this sentimental stuff,” Wriothesley starts, “I mean, I’m hardly experienced with romantic relationships myself despite my age.” He chuckles, and suddenly you feel as though the mood has lightened ever-so-slightly. “But trust me when I say Monsieur Neuvillette still cares deeply about you.”
Does he? Why would anyone stand by helplessly while the person they supposedly love more than life itself is taken from them forever?
Despite the protests that practically fly to the tip of your tongue, you continue listening attentively. Although you keep telling yourself you no longer care about your former lover, perhaps there’s still a small spark of incandescent hope lying somewhere within your heart — an ember of love awaiting a day where it will burst into brilliant flame once more.
“Think about it,” Wriothesley hums, his casual tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if he never broke character. “It’s been years since your case has been closed, and all the loose ends were supposedly tied up when you were sentenced, which means…” He trails off, waiting for you to piece together fragmented bits of logic within the recesses of your mind.
The muddled pieces of knowledge confound you, yet as you consider the implications of Wriothesley’s statement more carefully, a flicker of ingenuity comes to life in a sporadic burst of aureate sparks.
“Which means he never stopped investigating,” you conclude. “He believed it wasn’t me all along.”
The realization dawns on you in shades of phantasmagoric navy. It’s chilling, akin to the unwelcome touch of icy waters. Likewise, it overwhelms you. Its implications are far too profound to be ignored or pushed aside, and you begin to understand that you won’t be able to run away from the man you once loved for eternity.
“And?” Wriothesley adds.
“And he’s been trying to prove my innocence,” you breathe out, feeling disconnected from the moment.
Everything feels surreal, and the last few seconds feel no less oneiric than the ludicrous dreams you’re pulled into every night. It’s as if your world is twisting and turning upside down. You’ve spent all this time trying to incinerate every ounce of affection held within your heart for Neuvillette, bitterly blocking every memory of him from your mind all while he’s been tirelessly working to reunite with you.
Guilt pierces your entire being, enveloping you in a venomous sort of discomfort. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how unfairly you’ve been treating the man you were once hopelessly-devoted to. Even back then in your emotional state, you should have known he would never betray you, much less in such a profound manner. Yet a part of you is still bitter that it took him this long to do anything. You can’t find it in your heart to forgive him entirely.
Remorse is a complex sentiment. While it pushes individuals to grow and defy past ordainments, it also drives them to make decisions that become ironically more regrettable later on. You feel as though your situation will fit in the latter category as a desire to reconvene with your past lover blazes to life. You’re still beyond enraged when you think about him, but a small flourish of love still remains in your heart. There’s so much you want to know, so without a further thought, you relay your hasty choice to Wriothesley before you can stop yourself.
“Fine, take me up to the surface. I need to speak to Neuvillette.”
The moment you resurface for the first time in years, an epiphany overcomes your senses. You realize how much you missed all the sights and sounds of the outside world — how much you had taken everything for granted back when you were still free.
Every caress of an aquatic zephyr feels like a gentle luxury, and the sensation of golden sunbeams enveloping you in threads of luminous comfort is something entirely otherworldly. You savour the ephemeral peace and serenity that surrounds you, losing yourself in the salty spray of azure waves and the vast beauty of the divine skies above.
As someone who’s allowed above ground routinely for official business, Wriothesley either doesn’t notice your wonder as he escorts you to your destination, or he chooses not to comment on it. Perhaps the beauty of the overworld has become nothing more than a mundanity to him.
The Palais Mermonia is every bit as grand as you remember. It towers over Fontaine, as if watching over the city and all its affairs. The smooth stone walls and opulent detailings adorning the building serve as a welcome reminder of how magnificent Fontaine’s architecture can be — a nice change of pace after spending countless days locked away within the monochromatic metal walls of the Fortress of Meropide.
As Wriothesley leads you through the intricate doors of the Palais Mermonia, you feel a sense of anticipation swell within your heart. Polychromatic butterflies desperately flutter their wings in the pit of your stomach, manifesting in a swarm of discombobulating chaos. With every step you take towards Neuvillette’s office, you feel your feet grow heavier. By the time you’re standing before the entrance, you feel as if you’re practically glued to the ground. The only things that keep you going are Wriothesley’s watchful stare and careful guidance.
The dark-haired man beside you pushes the door open and motions for you to enter first. As much as you’d rather hide behind Wriothesley, you decide to swallow your nerves and step into the office before him.
Unfortunately for you, the first sight that greets you upon entering the office is the face of a man you’ve been trying to avoid for years now, whether in the waking world or slumber. Against your own will, you note that he appears just as breathtaking as the day you lost him. Every detail of his suit is as pristine as ever, not a single wrinkle in sight, no matter how hard you scrutinize. His hair looks as soft and voluminous as usual, each strand of cerulean a sharp contrast to silken starlight. Simply put it, nothing has changed, and as you look into his eyes, you realize just how accurate your inference is.
Molten tanzanite fills eyes akin to galaxies occupied by subtle glimmers of emotion. Even now, you find that you can read him perfectly. Although he appears serious on the surface, a single examination of Neuvillette’s gaze is all it takes for you to spot the luminous adoration that gleams beneath layers of carefully-crafted defenses.
Damn it. Don’t look at me like that.
It’s a look you’d recognize anywhere — a look you had once loved with all your heart, yet now it feels detestable more than anything. The ironic juxtaposition between your feelings in past and present nearly makes you laugh. It’s a bleak reminder of how greatly circumstances have shifted — how everything is wrong now.
Not a word is spoken as you sit down in a chair across from Neuvillette. Although you had assumed Wriothesley would join you, he stands off to the side before you can even protest. Any attempt to call him back over would definitely make it obvious that you didn’t want to have what was essentially a one-on-one conversation with your ex.
“[Name],” Neuvillette greets you formally, his tone steady and practiced. It feels unnatural after all you’ve been through; in the past, endearment would lace his tone each time he spoke to you, conveying the true depth of his feelings with a single whisper. This stiff rendition of the fantasia that used to be your name falling from his lips is nothing like the soft melody you’d become accustomed to so long ago.
“Neuvillette,” you shoot back, trying your best to keep your voice from reverting to its affectionate default. Although you’re unsure about acting cold towards the man, you’re certain neither of you would be fine with immediately going back to the way you were before the entire disaster unfolded in a matter of mere seconds.
(And besides that, you’re still somewhat angry it took him literal years to find a way to get you out of Meropide.)
“I hope you’ve been well,” Neuvillette says, his tone softening ever-so-subtly. Vulnerability works its way into a slight waver of his voice, a nearly-unnoticeable detail that any average person would miss. However, you are not an average person. You’ve acquainted yourself with every intricacy of Neuevillette’s personality over the years, and even now, every detail is preserved perfectly within the archives of your memory.
“I was as well as I could be in prison, I guess,” you mumble.
Even you’re not quite sure if your passing comment is an attempt at humour or a jab at your previous lover. Fortunately for you, Neuvillette doesn’t attempt to laugh. Instead, he simply nods.
“I see…” he trails off, staring at you intently. Eyes filled with hues of softened lilac and faint periwinkle blue bear into your soul, inspecting you with a gaze woven from twilight. Stardust suspicion seems to glint in Neuvillette’s irises, but he doesn’t pry. “What have you be—”
“Enough small talk. Can we get to the point?” you force out. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about the fact that Neuvillette still cares about you, so you push aside your emotions for the moment to focus on the main issue. As much as you want to ask what your relationship has become, everything feels far too overwhelming now that he’s in front of you again for the first time in years. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”
Neuvillette pauses for a second, mulling over his next words. He doesn’t try to push the previous topic. Instead, he complies with your request.
“Work alongside me,” he says. “I’m aware that you may not find this to be the ideal arrangement, but ever since your sentencing, your reputation has become…” Neuvillette can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, so you interject.
“Awful? Dismal? Lower than low?” you chuckle bitterly. “I know. I didn’t expect any more when I agreed to come back up to the surface.”
For a second, pity sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes, a look reminiscent of fragments of sunlight reflecting off sapphire ocean waves. You promptly decide that you hate it.
“Yes. Although I would not put it in such — brazen terms. If you would like an opportunity to clear your name, I would suggest putting serious consideration towards aiding in the second round of investigation. Please do let me know your verdict as soon as possible.”
“Why are you asking me as if I have a choice? It’s either help you or return to prison. Obviously one option is better than the other,” you sigh as a shiver runs down your spine. You know you’ll be in for an awkward few weeks. Spending every second by Neuvillette’s side is a harrowing nightmare come to life, but there’s no better way out of your dilemma. “I’ll join your stupid investigation.”
“Very well then,” Neuvillette responds. “I will show you to your accommodations in due time. Guards will be stationed outside your door around the clock in everyone’s best interest.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even with contradictory evidence, you’re still going to be treated like a criminal until you’re proven definitively innocent.
“Please note that you will begin assisting me tomorrow.”
With that, Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley, acknowledging him for the first time since the two of you entered the room. “Mr. Wriothesley, thank you for escorting [name] to my office. You may now take your leave.”
A part of you wants to beg Wriothelsey not to leave you alone with Neuvillette, but for once, you decide that you have to start being brave. So with bated breath and a heavy heart, you watch as your sole companion in recent times turns away, heading back to an unreachable world below the surface.
You’re on your own now in a place that has become entirely foreign to you.
The silken covers of the bed you’re provided are surprisingly comfortable. Wrapping each seafoam-coloured blanket around your body feels like being enveloped in a cloud, and sinking into a soft mattress is a luxury you have long forgotten after becoming accustomed to your dorm in the Fortress of Meropide. Needless to say, you find your slumber shockingly restful despite all the turbulent feelings arising within the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake your rationality and fill you with a cold, chilling panic.
No, the panic only sets in when you’re escorted back to Neuvillette’s office the next morning by the two guards sent to oversee your activities. It’s akin to being plunged into the depths of freezing lapis waters, losing your grip beneath waves forged from midnight essence. A whole day alone together with Neuvillette is going to be a challenge, and unfortunately, your nerves get the better of you.
You hear his voice as cool perspiration forms on the back of your neck, slight shivers running down your spine.
“Good morning,” Neuvillette greets you, as composed and regal as ever.
You envy his ability to behave as though he’s tranquility personified, even in such an awkward situation. His composure is a virtue.
“You let me sleep in,” you note. The sunbeams that filter through Neuvillette’s window in a flurry of faded daffodil shades look nothing like the gilded threads of light that grace Fontaine at sunrise. Besides that, you can already hear a fair amount of chatter outside the office, and you even recall spotting a few passer-bys scurrying about as you were accompanied to the Palais Mermonia.
“Indeed I did,” Neuvillette confirms your suspicions.
You glare at him. “I thought you wanted me up bright and early to help you investigate.”
The man before you sighs. “Based on your behaviour yesterday, I inferred that the past few days have been rather taxing on you emotionally. I wanted to give you ample time to recuperate to ensure that you would be able to think optimally today.”
Neuvillette’s eyes soften, a rare sort of gentleness manifesting in dulled lavender, a hue pulled straight from an evening afterglow.
You recall a passing thought from a time you had watched nightfall overtake the heavens with Neuvillette a few years back. At the time, he had looked at you with the same soft gaze, examining you with an expression that conveyed unspoken understanding and affection. You remember noting the way his irises seemed to reflect the muted iridescent shades above. Back then, everything had been so tranquil, euphoric. A part of you can’t help but desperately wish to go back in time.
“Thank you,” you relent, finally acknowledging Neuvillette’s kindness.
Neuvillette shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me,” he states. “This is beneficial to both of us. After all, I don’t expect you to work effectively with a tired mind.”
Without another word, Neuvillette pulls out a pile of official documents, their worn ivory pages a stark contrast to a second untainted milky white stack he sets on his desk.
“As you may be able to tell, these are the case files from the initial investigation,” Neuvillette points to the first collection of papers, “and these are documents containing new developments.” He points at the pristine new records.
“Can you summarize what exactly made you revisit the case?” you ask Neuvillette. Personally, you don’t feel like spending a full day poring over documents instead of investigating. That’s just inefficiency at its finest. Why do that when you have someone who seems to revel in records to explain everything to you?
Neuvillette allows a light chuckle to slip past his lips, the sound a nostalgic fantasia as it reaches your ears. “I see that you haven’t stopped finding the easiest way to complete your tasks,” he jests, “but very well. This will save us a considerable amount of time.”
You sit with bated breath, suspense filling the atmosphere as you patiently wait to learn the exact evidence that may have altered your fate entirely.
“Firstly, to reiterate, the murder was a poisoning,” Neuvillette starts. “A member of the Marechaussee Phantom was found dead at a banquet with a drink in hand. Its contents were found to be normal for the most part, but when investigated more thoroughly, trace amounts of a toxic substance were found.”
You nod with fervour, every intricate puzzle piece of the case that had dictated your destiny all those years ago still fresh in your mind.
“You were the one who poured the drink.” Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you because for the first time in your life, you hear Neuvillette’s voice tremble slightly, like a resplendent leaf as it drifts on an autumnal breeze. “There was no way to prove your innocence at the time, and no matter how hard we tried to trace the origins of the poison, all we could discern was that it was fast-acting, which thankfully meant that there were no other casualties. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any compelling leads…” Neuvillette pauses, “until now.”
“Recently, a worker from a drink factory has approached us with reports of suspicious activities within the facility. Although most employees are kept in the front of the building to manage the machines and ensure that the quality of each bottle sufficiently meets company standards, there are a select few allowed in the back to oversee the entire operation.”
“What does this have to do with the case?” you interject. You can feel your interest waning as Neuvillette’s words become tangent-adjacent.
“Not everything is as it seems,” he assures you. “Around a week ago, the worker ventured into the back, desperately searching for one of their superiors. The higher-up in question had assigned them a task, and afterwards, they proceeded to disappear for weeks on end. When looking for their manager, the worker discovered the truth of the facility.”
Your breath hitches in anticipation.
“Put simply, the entire drink production operation is a deception. The company’s real purpose is to produce a rare variety of poison. Fortunately, we managed to procure a sample of it, and when tested, it was found to be identical to the very substance used to assassinate the victim of your case.”
Although you want to correct Neuvillette, you hold your tongue. There’s no point in getting off-track.
“So you want me to help you find out who put the poison in the bottle?” you ask.
Neuvillette nods. “We could have simply paid a visit to the Fortress of Meropide and interrogated you from there, but I thought you would appreciate a little freedom and control over your own destiny. Besides that, I know you’re competent, and the rest of the investigation could greatly benefit from your assistance.”
“Is that really all there is to it? I’m sure lots of people out here were against the idea of letting me roam free for fear of their own safety, so it must have been quite a challenge to get me out in the first place,” you scoff. “If my comfort was the only factor in play, then you would have simply taken the easy way out and questioned me in prison to appease everyone.”
For a moment, Neuvillette hesitates. Transitory silence fills the air before being fragmented into crystalline shards of dissonant revelation that cause goosebumps to grace the surface of your skin.
“Your intuition is as sharp as ever,” he sighs. Suddenly, he looks all too exhausted, and you begin to realize how hard he fought to earn you your temporary freedom. “All the citizens of Fontaine believe that the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale is perfect, flawless in its very nature. However, after your sentencing, doubt started to circulate, and I found myself among those who questioned the outcome of the case. It felt as though the full truth had not been revealed to us yet, and your punishment was ordained solely by a hasty collection of shaky facts gathered through a rushed investigation. It was entirely… unjust… the opposite of what Fontaine stands for.”
“There it is. You’re doing this all in the name of what’s right, as usual.”
You’re not sure what you were expecting Neuvillette to say. Perhaps you wanted him to tell you that he would never lose faith in you, his once dearly-beloved. Or maybe you were wishing with every fibre of your being that he would simply say he still cared and wanted you back.
But no, he’s Neuvillette.
Above all, he is fair.
He is justice.
The gazes of everyone in the interrogation room seem to burn with the light of a thousand stars, their pressuring radiance serving as an instrument of truth — a way to seek sincere answers to any questions that are posed. You shrink under their phosphorescence, feeling insignificant as the demands of all the officials in the room coalesce.
Before you stands Neuvillette, a few guards, and a couple members of the Marechaussee Phantom. You recognize the latter two as personal friends of the victim — people with personal stakes in the case.
“Do you remember who gave you the bottle?” a melusine inquires.
You force yourself to take a deep breath in, oxygen feeling like the sweetest ambrosia as you try to calm yourself. It’s funny. The small creature is at most half your size, potentially even less, yet you’re the one who feels intimidation well up in the pit of your stomach like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.
“A man named Gabriel, I think? He handed me the bottle while I was walking around and asked me to pass it around for him because he was busy running other supplies around the party.”
“That seems to line up with the records from the trial,” Neuvillette muses, flipping through his documents, “but when we investigated, we found no trace of such an individual, which leads us to believe that they utilized an alias and a disguise to conceal their true identity.”
You have enough restraint to hold back a groan. Here we go again with all the complexities.
“The bottle was screwed shut and completely full before you poured the victim a glass of juice, correct?” The melusine continues their questioning, meeting your eyes with a gaze composed of molten tourmaline.
“Yes,” you confirm. “Doesn’t that just make me look more guilty though? Clearly the poison couldn’t have been in the drink because the bottle hadn’t been unsealed yet, so the court deemed that the only logical conclusion was that I slipped something into the victim’s drink in the split second where nobody was looking.”
The melusine sighs. “With the emerging evidence, we’ve come up with a new theory. If the person responsible for the murder truly wasn’t you, then perhaps the actual perpetrator had a different means of mixing the toxic substance with the beverage. Keep in mind, the poison manufacturer is also a drink manufacturer.”
You pause for a moment, a frown etching itself into your features. You’re starting to see where this is going, but you don’t quite understand the big picture yet. “Elaborate, please.”
Neuvillette takes over. “If our new running theory is correct, then this is how the timeline of events occurred. The suspect was likely an authority figure at the aforementioned drink company, or at the very least, they were relatively close with someone who had power there. In order to throw off the investigation, they managed to spike the beverage before it was sealed in the factory. By doing this, they falsely led us to believe that the poison was poured into the cup instead of into the bottle, thereby alleviating the manufacturer of any suspicion.”
Oh. Suddenly everything is beginning to make a lot more sense. As each string of evidence begins to fall into place, a tapestry of truth is woven. At long last, an alternate story is starting to replace the false narrative that had been in circulation at the time of the case’s unraveling.
“It worked,” you breathe out. “Nobody even bothered to check the contents of the bottle because they were so focused on who was close enough to sneak something into the victim’s cup in the brief moment between the pouring of the drink and the first sip.”
“And for that I must apologize,” Neuvillette sighs, a thousand unspoken regrets lacing his tone. “Our investigation was not thorough enough, and this time, I do not intend to allow any more injustices to befall you.”
As you peer into Neuvillette’s eyes, you catch sight of sincerity manifesting in their depths, each glint of violaceous luminosity conveying a silent promise to protect you. At that moment, you’re sure that Neuvillette believes you were nothing more than an innocent bystander entangled in a web of schemes. Even if the rest of the world is still against you, at least you have him.
“Thank you. I’ll try my best to help you as much as I can.” You finally relent and decide that perhaps it’s time to adopt a policy of compliance; now that you’re sure your intentions all align, you feel ready to work with Neuvillette without reservations.
“Permission to share what we found out about the bottle?” the melusine from before interrupts your moment with Neuvillette, your transient flash of bliss disappearing within a blink. You can’t blame them, as your main priority right now is getting to the bottom of things.
Neuvillette nods, wordlessly indicating his approval.
“As you may know, we took in all items related to the investigation that day. The bottle of beverage was among them. We recently tested the liquid inside, and as expected, there were traces of poison mixed with the drink. It’s worth noting that the drink itself is the same one produced by the suspicious facility we received a report about recently.”
“So I’ve almost been proven entirely innocent?” You can’t resist the urge to ask, the idea of being pardoned after being assumed guilty for so long a saccharine respite.
“Yes, as long as we can apprehend the real criminals and get them to confess to their crimes, you’ll be free,” the melusine confirms. “Fortunately, the worker and the contents of the bottle have led us to the perfect place to start our second inspection — the factory.”
Not even a day later, you rise bright and early to look into the manufacturer with Neuvillette. As the suspect framed in a murder linked to the factory’s poison, your reappearance above ground is bound to set off some red flags in the minds of those who helped orchestrate the entire ordeal. Consequently, you don an uncomfortable disguise while Neuvillette simply plans on masquerading around the place as himself.
It’s ironic. Neuvillette, the renowned Iudex of Fontaine, can roam without fear of interference as his genuine self. Meanwhile, you, a mere nobody, are forced to adorn yourself with layers of obscurities, masking every aspect of your identity.
The contrast between your situations is almost amusing, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Even as silken strands of opulent golden sunlight grace your skin, sending a rush of warmth through your body, you can’t help but tremble. The stakes are high, and the possibility of being discovered is distressing to an extreme.
“Shall I go over the narrative one last time?” Neuvillette asks you as your destination seems to grow larger and larger. The grey stone that the building is forged of is reminiscent of the colour of storm clouds — ominous and foreboding.
“Wouldn’t hurt to,” you mumble, willing yourself to stop shivering immediately. You’ll draw even more attention to yourself if you continue to shake like ultramarine ripples on the surface of a turbulent lake.
“Fontaine’s food and drink products have been suffering a decline in quality lately,” Neuvillette states, “and we are here today to perform a health inspection. Although the Iudex is typically not involved with investigating such trivial matters, the issue has become profound. The lives of several Fontainians have already been jeopardized, so in an attempt to prevent any further tragedies, I have decided to personally step in alongside my assistant.”
You hum absentmindedly, still distracted by your nerves. It feels as though permafrost has infused itself with your soul, as you continue to quiver despite all your attempt to ground yourself. “Compelling,” you manage to force out.
You’re drawn back to reality by Neuvillette’s next actions. To your horror, his familiarity with your emotions due to your shared history is your detriment. Before you can process what’s happening, he takes your hand in his. His gentle grip is soothing, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that you’re in this together.
“No matter what happens, I will be by your side,” he reassures you.
For a second, it feels like you’re back in the past. Everything is fine between you and Neuvillette, and you can still trust him unconditionally. Although your relationship has deteriorated now, you find that his presence still brings you a sense of comfort.
Perhaps some sentiments are simply meant to endure forevermore.
There’s nothing remarkable about the inside of the factory at first glance. As expected, typical assembly lines are present within the vicinity to ensure that every bottle is assembled and packaged in an efficient manner. On the surface, nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary.
Your tour guide is friendly and welcoming, not intimidated in the slightest by Neuvillette’s regal presence. Although his appearance garners a few curious glances from the employees you pass by, no one is outright alarmed.
“So as you can see, our humble facility does indeed live up to all the health and safety regulations mandated by Fontainian law,” your guide concludes as your mundane tour draws to a close.
In all honesty, you’ve learned nothing even remotely useful. However, you refuse to leave empty-handed. As such, you decide to make an impulsive decision — a choice that will perhaps cast suspicion upon you, but if everything goes well, you could obtain crucial evidence pertaining to the case.
“We haven’t seen the back of the factory yet,” you muse. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from us? Mold, perhaps?” you pause for dramatic effect, trying your best to play it up. All you can do is desperately pray that your acting skills are enough to convince the tour guide you’re being genuine. “Or maybe an insect infestation.”
A laugh slips past the tour guide’s lips, piercing the awkward atmosphere with a timbre and articulation far too forced to indicate any sort of amusement. No, the guide is nervous, which means something is definitely off. You just need to gather concrete evidence of the misdemeanours being conducted behind the scenes of a grand diversion — something that means more than a simple vial of poison hailing from an unknown origin brought to you by a worker.
“Oh, my superiors typically prefer privacy,” the guide continues to chuckle, a slight hint of anxiety permeating his tone. “There are lots of important meetings held in the back, and they’re not the most fond of disturbances.”
One scrutinizing glance from Neuvillette is all it takes to send the guard reeling. Eyes swimming with delicate lilac narrow, any hint of gentleness fading like the brilliance of wilting petals.
“But I’m sure they can make an exception for our most honoured guests.” Swiftly, the guide makes his way over to the door leading to the back, pulling it open and gesturing for both you and Neuvillette to pass through.
Yet again, you find that you’re met with a sight that’s mediocre at finest. There’s nothing extremely telling about the meeting rooms you’re led through. However, as you wander through the winding corridors and desolate hallways of the surprisingly large area, you spot it — a sizable wardrobe sitting within what feels like the hundredth meeting room you’ve passed through.
Like everything else in this strange place, there’s nothing off about the furnishing upon initial inspection, but after a few moments of careful consideration, you note that it’s far too sumptuous to be in a place like this. It’s horribly out-of-place, a polished oak eyesore amongst the cool-toned decorations within the room.
As you share a look with Neuvillette, you can see that he’s having similar thoughts. At some point in time, someone moved the wardrobe into the room, likely to conceal something. Taking a closer look is essential, but first you need to find a way to distract the guide.
“Excuse me,” you interrupt the guide’s tangent. “Is there a bathroom anywhere nearby?”
Within a matter of minutes, both you and Neuvillette are escorted over to the nearest bathroom. You enter the room and lock the door. Although you haven’t had an opportunity to discuss a plan with Neuvillette due to the prying ears stationed right next to the two of you, you know what he’ll do next. You’re sure he understands you well enough to know that what you need at the moment is a diversion.
Sure enough, your silent pleas are answered as Neuvillette walks a few steps away from the bathroom door, his footsteps thrumming against the frigid ground as a percussive background to the eerie soundtrack that seems to flood the entire factory.
“Is that an insect?” he inquires.
You hear a rush of frenzied steps, ones that you can distinctly differentiate from Neuvillette’s. That must be the guide.
“Where?” the guide’s voice rings out.
You hear the soft rustle of clothing as the guide supposedly leans over in order to take a closer look. Then, a loud bang shatters the quietude into jagged shards of chaos. You take it as your sign to open the bathroom door and sneak off quietly.
“Ah, forgive me. I was mistaken,” you hear Neuvillette’s voice fade into the distance.
The labyrinth of passages is difficult to navigate, but thankfully your memory is sufficient enough to guide you back along the route from whence you came. In a matter of minutes, you’re back at the wardrobe, scrambling to unveil every enigmatic secret hiding behind its prosaically plain exterior.
Common sense tells you to simply open it first, and sure enough, you find that the back of the furnishing has been hollowed out in order to form a passageway leading to an unknown location. Although you’re nervous, moving forwards is the only way you’re going to make any progress.
You force yourself to confront the mysterious tunnel, heading into its depths in order to collect the next piece of information you need to fully unravel the identity of the true killer.
This is for justice, you tell yourself. Begrudgingly, you also find thoughts of it’s what Neuvillette would do invading your mind.
When you finally step into a mundane office space, you feel as though you can breathe again. The daze slowly begins to subside, and in its wake, you find rationality once more.
Time is of the essence, so you decide to head over to the singular desk stationed in the room. On its surface is a collection of scattered papers, some frayed and others in mint condition. Immediately, you make a dash for the yellowed pages, scanning each one quickly before setting it down.
The documents seem to detail transactions between the company and those buying from their hidden business in the back. Each one is stamped with a date and a signature from the buyer stating that they will not (under any circumstance) reveal where the product they purchased came from. Perfect — all you have to do is find a file that seems to align with the relative time period where your crime took place.
Fortunately for you, the once-daunting plethora of papers is actually a far more meager pile than you had initially thought. Perhaps not many people know about the nefarious schemes that lie behind the factory’s fabricated façade, or maybe humans are simply sensible enough to avoid purchasing poison.
You search urgently, constantly looking over your shoulder and hoping, praying, to any archon listening to keep your deeds obscured and unwritten. However, through it all, you’re hindered by the fact that you have to actively try not to move things around too much. If someone returns to see that objects have shifted on their own, they’ll surely be on high alert.
After what feels like eons of blindly flipping through anything you could get your hands on, your eyes settle on a splotch of achromatic ink bleeding into canary. It’s a familiar date — around a week before your entire life fell apart. You grab the paper, and with one last scan of the other files, you’re nearly certain that it details the transaction of the very poison that broke down fate’s last defences, landing you in a prison you were never supposed to step foot in.
With haste, you stuff the document into your pocket and set off back to Neuvillette.
“We used to frequent that restaurant often,” Neuvillette muses as you wander the streets together.
Your tour had concluded around half an hour ago, and now you’re on your way back to the Palais Mermonia. Although you assured Neuvillette that you had obtained some useful evidence earlier through words whispered in the secrecy of a hushed voice, you know that you can’t discuss anything openly for fear of nosey bystanders — or worse, the criminals themselves — hearing.
You had taken a long time to find what you needed, so consequently it had been difficult to throw off any lingering doubt harboured by your guide. However, thanks to Neuvillette’s quick thinking, you were able to come up with an alibi.
The whole “bathroom” ruse had simply been a test — a plan to conduct your thorough inspection of the facility in an area typically skipped over, even on the most comprehensive tours. You had chimed in and said that the company passed with flying colours, and at that the guide simply beamed and continued leading you through meeting rooms.
Your reminiscence is interrupted as Neuvillette speaks again.
“Perhaps we should take a detour and visit,” he offers. “You must be famished after a day of hard work.”
You freeze, and your body tenses against your will. Isn’t it more important at the moment that you safely transport your evidence back to Neuvillette’s office? You tilt your head at Neuvillette curiously, as if to pose a question. Why are we wasting time?
“Trust me,” he leans in to whisper. You can feel his breath tickling your ear, yet you don’t flinch. It’s a feeling you had grown accustomed to years ago, and even now, having him close to you feels detestably right. “It will seem more like a casual outing if we make a leisurely stop along the way back. If we’re seen rushing back to the Palais Mermonia with a sense of urgency in our stride, then those around us will surely conclude that something is wrong.”
Neuvillette’s reasoning is sound, so despite your aching feet and your desire to simply get away from the cacophony of symphonic noise surrounding you, you allow him to pull you towards the restaurant. As you walk in, you find that all your senses are enveloped by the familiarity of deja vu. The pleasant lighting and floral arrangements begin to pop up in your memory, and the ornate furnishings that adorn the place are the same as ever.
A part of you finds that you missed this. You missed your simple traditions with Neuvillette.
The two of you are seated the moment you step foot in the restaurant. You can’t seem to recall if the staff had ever been this efficient before, but something tells you this is a special circumstance.
“Monsieur Neuvillette,” a waiter greets the Iudex as you both take your seats. You find that you recognize him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here with company, much less someone other than [name].”
Right. No one recognizes you because you’re still clad in your stupid disguise.
“Ah, good evening, Pierre,” Neuvillette responds. “My companion here is a newly-hired assistant. They have been working tirelessly all day, so I decided to treat them to a meal. Although they are not [name], I hope you will be able to treat them with the same hospitality.”
A frenzy of nods follows Neuvillette’s words.
“What can I get for you today?” Pierre frantically asks you. As usual, people are eager to please Neuvillette, his position of power ever-pertinent within the recesses of their minds.
You scan the menu, and a rush of nostalgia overwhelms you for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days. There are a variety of dishes listed in neat loopy handwriting, each cursive word causing recollections to ebb and flow within your memory. However, your eyes settle on one menu item in particular — a former personal favourite of yours. Feeling satisfied, you decide to place your order. As you speak, you notice shock dance across the waiter’s visage.
“Is something wrong?” you question Pierre, scrutinizing his dumbfounded expression. If you could, you would dissect the meaning behind every line etched into his features — examine the anatomy of his curious stare.
Pierre shakes his head with fervour. “Nothing’s wrong, per se…” He trails off, the aquamarine lakes that comprise his irises fogging up with a shine unique to someone who’s reminiscing. “It’s just… that dish is one of our least popular, but [name] used to order it all the time. Nowadays, the only person who really consumes it regularly is Monsieur Neuvillette himself.”
Tension begins to materialize within the previously-lighthearted air of the restaurant. Suddenly, the atmosphere feels heavy as the implications of Pierre’s statement sink in. Once upon a time, you had offered Neuvillette a bite of your food when dining here, and although he didn’t mean to insult it, he did say that he understood why it was unpopular. In other words, he indirectly insinuated that he didn’t like the taste of the dish.
Perhaps you’re overly-optimistic, but a part of you begins to speculate that Neuvillette only willingly ordered the menu item regularly because of the memories associated with it. It’s a shockingly sweet revelation. Despite your distance over the years, he’s still tried his best to keep you in his heart.
Bittersweet affection gnaws at your heart, chipping off pieces of garnet in a cataclysmic heartbreak. As if you don’t already feel bad enough about your attempted erasure of his existence from your memory during your time in prison.
You zone out as Neuvillette places his order. All you manage to catch is the fact that he doesn’t ask for a serving of your favourite meal this time around.
So it really was all for you.
As Pierre walks away, you turn to study Neuvillette, your gaze sharp.
“What was that all about?”
For a second, Neuvillette stills, collecting his thoughts. Then, he makes eye contact, a stare composed of crepuscular shades of amethyst.
“I must admit, my heart longed for you throughout the years we spent apart,” Neuvillette confesses.
Darn it. Why can’t he be normal for once?
Your heartbeat, once a steady rhythm, begins to become erratic. It pounds in your ears with an unmatched urgency, as if its ultimate goal is simply to leap out of your chest and retreat back into your ex-lover’s gentle grasp.
“I see,” you mumble, beginning to feel awkward.
Silence envelopes your own personal world with Neuvillette as you wait for the waiter to come back with your food. Neither of you can bring yourselves to keep the conversation going. Any small talk would seem disingenuous at this point, and the mere idea of pressing on with the previous topic is enough to make you shudder.
Thankfully, Pierre is surprisingly quick (although that may have something to do with the fact that you’re dining with the Iudex himself), and you find that you’re able to dig into your meal to distract yourself in no time.
It tastes the same as you remember. In fact, nothing has really changed, even with the passage of time. Out of everything in the entire restaurant, you find that you and Neuvillette have undergone the most profound transformations, your once-loving relationship eroding into a confusing mess of broken trust, dubious betrayals, and yearning.
(At the end of the night, you find that a miniscule ember of love remains alive in your heart — a weak crimson glow beginning to ignite once more.)
The journey back to the Palais Mermonia is tranquil, the night air soothing the anxious thoughts plaguing your mind. Stars beam down at you from above, shedding brilliant silvery light over the entirety of the nation. Likewise, the moon guides your path back to the grand building where you wrap up your investigation for the day.
Upon entering Neuvillette’s office, you immediately beeline for his desk, pulling the document that took you a painstaking amount of effort to obtain out and setting it on the polished wooden surface. Curiously, eyes the shade of dulled anemone petals scan the contents of the page.
Neuvillette reads quickly, taking in all the information contained within the file in no time. After a lifetime of poring over records, he’s become accustomed to processing critical points of knowledge efficiently. However, he freezes as his gaze settles on the signature at the bottom of the page.
“What’s up?” you ask him.
You’ve never seen Neuvillette quite so shaken up, his composure torn away from him momentarily. In the moment, all that matters to you is ensuring that he’s okay. Before you realize it, you find yourself reaching out to him, an evanescent flash back to the past in a present that feels so far-removed. A few days ago, you never would have dreamed of comforting him, much less allowing him to make any sort of contact with you. Now, however, you’re beginning to unwind all the hasty misconceptions you had harboured for years on end.
You’ve come to understand that despite being worlds apart, you were still at the forefront of all Neuvillette’s sentiments throughout the past few years. He’s cared about you from afar beyond simply spying on your life through Wriothesley for all this time. It’s time you finally start treating him right.
To your relief, he doesn’t refuse your hand. Instead, he intertwines your fingers as he continues to gape at midnight upon ivory, reading the buyer’s name over and over. Finally, the calm returns to Neuvillette, his vulnerability dissipating after what feels like eons (in actuality, it’s no more than ten seconds).
“Apologies,” Neuvillette says, his voice as steady as ever. “Seeing the signature of the buyer… confirmed a suspicion of mine. However, this revelation is not necessarily a thrilling one. In fact, I would say that it is rather… disappointing and tragic.”
You tilt your head slightly, wonder swirling through your thoughts in spirals of erratic questions. “Why’s that?”
The sigh that Neuvillette heaves out is perhaps the most dramatically-depressing noise that’s ever left his lips. Creases line his forehead, marring porcelain skin with lines that convey concern and dismay.
“This is the name of one of our current Marechaussee Phantom members,” Neuvillette breathes out. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who assumed the position of the victim after their death. In addition to this, he was the only member who was intentionally not informed of the dealings of the deceptive factory. I withheld information from him because I had my own suspicions. I fear that my judgement was correct. If I had informed him that we were looking into the facility, these records would have been destroyed long before we stepped foot inside the building.”
“Wait a second! That sounds way too suspicious,” you say, your voice coming out slightly more aggressive than you want it to. You flinch as your tone reaches your ears. “Why didn’t anyone look into them or at least suspect them?”
“He was the deceased’s lover.” Your breath hitches as Neuvillette continues his explanation. “His grief after learning of the death was immense, so much so that no one could dare to consider the possibility that…”
“That he was the culprit,” you finish. “No one wanted to believe the lovers could betray each other.” You nearly scoff as you realize the irony of you saying this to your very own ex.
Neuvillette nods as you exhale tiredly. Everything is finally coming together after years. At long last, you’ve found another candidate for the possible murderer — the real deal this time.
“I had my doubts about him,” Neuvillette mumbles. “Although tears serve as an effective distractor, insincerity shines brighter than even the most dramatic of theatrics. I have never revealed this to anyone, but besides his qualifications and honouring the memory of our fallen comrade, one of the reasons I assigned him to his current position was to maintain a close watch over him at all times. Despite the precautions I took… I had hoped with all my heart that I would not be proven right.”
“And yet you were, so what now,” you inquire. “Do we just apprehend him and call it a day?”
“I would be pleased if it were that easy,” Neuvillette smiles wryly, “but there are many who would still be unwilling to trust our claims without further evidence. Think about it — would you really want to believe that a trusted member of the Marechaussee Phantom is a cold-blooded murderer? The very notion is inappropriately ironic.”
As Neuvillette’s reasoning sinks in, you nod along. What he’s saying makes sense, but you’re unsure of how you should proceed from here. To your relief, Neuvillette has a solution, as always.
“Considering the fact that the perpetrator has insider information, he’s already aware that we are currently revisiting the case,” Neuvillette reiterates. “As such, his main priority at the moment is to cement your status as the real culprit behind the crime. All he needs is an ample opportunity.”
This is getting far too complicated for your liking.
“In order to catch him in the act, we’ll organize another banquet. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to frame you for another poisoning.”
Neuvillette’s logic is hard to follow, and as you pause to think about it, every thread of reasoning becomes lost in a jumble of nonsensical speculation.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter. “He’s not stupid enough to assume that I’d poison someone right after obtaining freedom. That would look too hasty, so foul play would be suspected immediately.”
“And that’s why I think he’ll target you with his poison,” Neuvillette interjects.
Your frown deepens as his claims become more and more bizarre.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Let me explain everything,” Neuvillette starts. “In order to connect the two cases to each other, the perpetrator will likely use the same weapon again. However, this time his target will be you. As you pointed out, if he harms anyone else, it will instantaneously appear as though someone is eager to falsely accuse you of committing crimes. By non-fatally poisoning you, he can claim that you willingly drank your own weapon in an attempt to throw off suspicion. He can point to the similarities in the compositions of the substances used in both cases to frame you as the one true mastermind behind everything.”
The pieces finally begin to coalesce in your mind, forming a shaky plan that hinges on oceans of luck and protection from Celestia above. It’s risky, but it may be your only chance to set things straight.
“Your great plan is just based on endangering me in order to collect a sample of whatever that person is going to give me?”
“I understand that it may be difficult for you to trust me entirely after everything,” Neuvillette sighs, “but if you agree to my proposition, then I promise I will personally ensure that no harm will come to you.”
After the events of the past two days, you know where your heart wants to stand. In spite of this, your mind screams at you to reject Neuvillette’s idea. You’re scared — terrified. The thought of being let down by Neuvillette again induces a fear in you like no other. Despite it all, you understand that you’ll never truly heal if you don’t at least try to give him another chance, so ultimately, you decide to comply.
“Alright, let’s start party planning.”
Weeks of preparation lead up to the big evening, every passing day a countdown to a finale to end all finales. On top of gathering supplies, arranging catering, and decorating, you’re also drilled on how to act when the moment of danger eventually arrives. You train relentlessly to ensure that Neuvillette’s scheme will go off without a hitch.
All your tireless practices pay off. As you walk into the banquet venue, hand-in-hand with Neuvillette, you find that you’re far less nervous than you had been when the idea was initially proposed. The kaleidoscopic butterflies that once fluttered around in the pit of your stomach have stilled, and you’re utterly calm — exactly what you need to pull this off.
Despite assisting in the planning of the party, you still find yourself awed by the extravagance of it all. You’re not quite sure if Neuvillette has come up with an occasion for celebration yet, as he had initially stated that it was a surprise on the invitations he had sent out. However, you’re sure that no matter its grandeur, the sheer opulence of everything around you is more than sufficient.
Aureate accents adorn nearly every item in the room, and the crystal chandeliers above gleam as though they’re catching moonlight from the midnight sky. The music that envelopes you is warm, each melodious note ringing out in a sweet droning of strings. It’s a perfect backtrack for an elegant waltz.
Most noteworthy of all, however, are the guests that surround you. Not a single person is dressed less than exceptionally. Sparkles, gems, and sequins are commonplace here despite being everyday rarities. Shades of seafoam, cobalt, turquoise, and periwinkle surround you as if the fabric of every guest’s clothing is a component of a lavish ocean of luxury.
Everyone around you dons elaborate masks that obscure only a portion of their faces. It’s a masquerade — a way for you to conceal your true identity from innocent civilians without appearing odd.
You’re quickly dragged out of your thoughts as Neuvillette leads you into the crowd. Everyone is swirling around in a series of intricate steps, twirling to the song that’s resonating within the idyllic air of the room. If not for Neuvillette’s tight grasp on your wrist, you fear you would have been swept away by a tide of partygoers.
“Do you recall how to waltz?” he asks, leaning in closer to ensure that you’re able to hear him over the unpleasant discordance surrounding you from all sides.
“Why does it matter?” you shoot back. Although you’ve opened up more and more to Neuvillette with each passing day, you’re not quite sure you want to dance with him just yet. “It’s not like this is necessary.”
“If we simply sit on the sidelines and observe everything, our suspect is bound to notice,” Neuvillette explains, his voice hushed. “Their eyes will be on you all night.”
The words send a shiver down your spine.
“So do your best to enjoy the moment and act as though you’re simply here to rejuvenate yourself.” Neuvillette pulls you closer, yet he leaves enough room to ensure that you’re not outright uneasy. “Is this arrangement sufficiently comfortable?”
You nod shakily as words seem to stick to the sides of your throat. It’s as though saccharine honey is sugar coating everything, its viscous properties slowing both your lips and your mind.
With your consent, Neuvillette guides you through the steps of a graceful dance. Although he moves with tact, practiced sophistication, you’re the absolute antithesis. Throughout your years underground, you never saw the opportunity to waltz, and as such, you’ve forgotten every intricacy of the choreographies you used to run through with Neuvillette. Thankfully, he keeps you in line, correcting every misstep you make with gentle guidance.
You find that the tenderness with which he handles you is something you’ve missed. Even now with contrasting feelings warring in the depths of your conflicted mind, Neuvillette’s arms are comfort manifested in a physical form. At the end of the day, he’s still home to you, and maybe he always will be. No one else will ever be capable of calming you down right before a criminal attempts to poison you.
For once, you decide to take Neuvillette’s advice. You forget all the duress of the current moment, and instead, you allow yourself to savour the warmth of Neuvillette’s embrace. So much for not being sure about dancing with him.
Time becomes an anomaly. Although each moment seems to slow, drawing out in a montage of careful movements, the dance is over before you know it.
Neuvillette leads you over to your table, and you take a seat atop the rose-coloured cushions of a plush chair, allowing a cream tablecloth to drape over your legs. As you sit down, you feel him tap your shoulder. He’s pointing to a man clad in a striped grey suit, his mask adorned with midnight blue stitching and matching feathers.
It’s your culprit, Francis, as you’ve learned. You don’t intend on allowing him to get away this time.
Patiently, you wait for him to approach you and Neuvillette. You already know he’ll walk up to you with the intention of ensnaring you within his trap. However, you’re two steps ahead in this twisted game of chess.
Sure enough, a grating voice rings out behind you before long.
“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Predictably, you’re met with the face of your prime suspect as you whip your head around. “And [name].” Right. He knows exactly who you are. Perhaps your imagination is weaving deceptions from preconceived notions, but you swear that you can hear a hint of a sneer in Francis’ words.
He spends some time chatting with Neuvillette, his dialogue consisting of flattery and exaggerated compliments. You’re not sure what your suspect believes he’s accomplishing, but a frown dances across your features as you continue listening in on the conversation. Any average person would be able to detect the deceit in his sickly-sweet tone, so the fact that he’s trying to utilize such a tactic on Neuvillette of all people astounds you.
You can’t help but wince as he makes blunder after blunder, your frustration welling with every sentence that comes out of his mouth. Finally, when it all becomes too much for you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.
“Neuvillette, I’m parched,” you complain. “Wanna go get something to drink?” Your own voice makes you cringe. Note to self: learn how to act in a compelling manner if you manage to make it out of this absolute disaster.
“It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately I must remain here. Although tonight is a night of leisure, I still have matters to discuss with certain individuals, and they are expecting me here.” You find it fortunate that Neuvillette’s performance is more convincing than your own, his mannerisms and timbre completely natural.
“Oh, don’t worry about them, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Francis says. “Tell you what. I can bring them over to the drinks table for you and give them a few recommendations. I can promise you that I am an expert when it comes to this kind of stuff. My brother owns a drink company.”
This time you’re sure your mind isn’t distorting reality. The smile that he flashes at you is downright devious, assuring you that Neuvillette had been right about his schemes all along.
You take a deep breath before eagerly accepting his offer.
“Sure. Thank you so much for joining me.”
The walk over is silent, Francis’ bright persona dimming the moment you step away from Neuvillette. Instead, fractals of glacial tension seem to settle over the atmosphere, frosting everything over with a hostile air.
When you reach the beverages, you immediately reach for a cup. However, Francis waves you down.
“Allow me. I insist.” He picks up a cup for you, placing it down in front of the selection of drinks. Before you even have the opportunity to voice your preferences, Francis picks up a bottle, inspecting it thoroughly before unscrewing the lid. “This delightful beverage was produced by my brother. You simply must have a taste.”
For a brief second, Francis obscures your vision of the cup with his back. His hand traces a path to the front pocket of his suit. You know what he’s doing, so you don’t bother attempting to sneak a glance. It’s futile.
As he hands you the drink, you thank him politely. You’re careful not to spill a single drop of the liquid as you make your way back to your seat. When you finally sit down next to Neuvillette again, you continue bantering, each second ticking down and burning away into oblivion. The more time you waste the closer you draw to your goal. People are on their way to test the contents of the spiked beverage at this very moment.
Despite your attempts to simply wait it out, a problem arises when Francis begins to pester you.
“Go ahead,” he urges you. “Try the drink and let me know your opinion. I’m eager to take notes for my brother!”
In response, you shake your head with fervour. Sampling poison is just about the last item on your bucket list. As you continuously refuse, Francis begins to become irritated, his words beginning to crescendo in volume.
Neuvillette’s crystalline lilac gaze begins to grow concerned. Subtle moonbeams glint within his irises, reflecting his worry for your wellbeing. However, his eyes continue to hold an unuttered promise — an oath to ensure that no harm befalls you whatsoever.
That’s what comforts you the most when Francis finally snaps, lunging at you as he jabs a finger into your face. As he begins to speak, his tone is accusatory more than anything.
“You set me up, didn’t you?” he snarls. “The two of you,” Francis glances back at Neuvillette, who’s silently watching the entire exchange. “You’re not drinking the beverage because you knew I’d poisoned it all along.”
“Mister Francis, I would advise you to remain silent,” Neuvillette speaks, his tone authoritative. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court of law.”
Unfortunately for Francis, he doesn’t take Neuvillette’s advice seriously. Instead, he’s hellbent on exacting his revenge. You begin to realize his philosophy is one that entails dragging others down with him when he pulls out an enchantingly-gorgeous translucent vial from his pocket.
It’s deceptively beautiful, its design making it seem as though it should contain nothing less than the finest divine nectar. However, you know how deadly the contents of the glass tube really are, and as such, a sense of panic begins to overtake your senses, overwhelming your head with countless scenarios where everything goes horrendously wrong.
Every diverging path vanishes into nothingness the moment Neuvillette steps in. A swift burst of aquatic energy fills your vision, and a cascade of pristine dewy droplets of water splatters your face as you close your eyes. When it’s over at long last, you glance around to find that Francis is on the ground, drenched and shivering as Neuvillette bends down to collect the vial he had been carrying.
“This will make for good evidence,” he notes, setting it down on the table alongside the drink.
It doesn’t take long for your backup to arrive after Neuvillette knocks Francis out. In fact, the timing of the poison-testers is a little too serendipitous to be organic. You’re starting to think that Neuvillette had planned to provoke Francis all along, but you don’t find an opportunity to ask before the team confiscates the drink and the vial to run experiments.
A crowd of onlookers has already begun to congregate, amalgamating in a curious frenzy. Everyone thinks they’re slick, but you can clearly see the way their eyes wander over to Francis’ unmoving form on the ground every so often.
“Follow me,” Neuvillette tells you as he takes off after the forensic team. Someone carries the samples of liquid that have yet to be tested, and a few others grab Francis and haul him off with you. You lose yourself in the winding hallways of the venue, each twist and turn serving only to further discombobulate your frazzled mind.
It feels like forever before you finally reach your destination. It’s quite ordinary in comparison to the sumptuous party occurring outside its doors — each wall a stark and blinding snow white and the lighting sterile and plain.
Francis is set down, and the forensic team promptly begins their investigation. As they labour, you turn to Neuvillette.
“Was it really necessary for you to use so much force when stopping him?” you reprimand him. “I’m grateful, I really am, but I think we attracted a little more attention than we needed.”
Upon hearing your words, Neuvillette chuckles. The sound of his laughter is a sonorous tune that you’ve missed hearing, no matter how much you want to deny it. Your heart races involuntarily.
“I was not intent on leaving your fate up to chance,” he says, sincerity weaving itself into every syllable he speaks. “Although keeping our operation a secret would have been ideal, I wasn’t planning to compromise anyone’s safety in exchange — especially not yours.”
Sometimes you resent Neuvillette for saying the most romantic things without realizing it. Every single rose-tinted word is like a shot to the heart, ensnaring your feelings in crimson threads of love. It’s as if you fall deeper and deeper into oceanic clutches, drowning — suffocating — as the weight of emotions hailing from both the past and present overwhelm you.
“We’re finished,” a member of the team chirps.
You feel the tension in your shoulders alleviate as both you and Neuvillette rush over to take in the results of the investigation.
“The two poison samples match the exact substance that was used all those years ago,” the analyst confirms, presenting you with the conclusions drafted on a sheet of paper. “With all the eyewitness evidence and the fact that he personally confessed to having connections to the very factory that prompted this investigation in the first place, it’s safe to say he won’t be seeing the light of day for a while.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief that you’ve been holding in for weeks. Your name has finally been cleared, and the real threat has been eliminated.
Above all else, justice has prevailed once more.
To your surprise, Neuvillette leads you to the grand stage at the forefront of all the festivities the moment you re-enter the main hall. Despite the pandemonium that had become the most prominent spectacle of the banquet earlier, people have resumed their lighthearted conversations and elegant dancing, swaying to and fro as if the alarming exchange between the Chief Justice and Francis had never occurred in the first place.
As people begin to notice the diminuendo in music and Neuvillette’s presence at the anterior of the room, the chatter gradually begins to die down, diminishing in a steady waning of volume. Eventually, silence consumes all, and you’re reminded of the sheer gravity of the Iudex’s aura alone.
“Greetings, esteemed guests.” The hall amplifies Neuvillette’s voice, each booming word reverberating and echoing off the opulent walls. “I stand before you today to announce a joyous cause for commemoration as well as to clarify the cause behind the commotion that some of you may have witnessed earlier.”
Whispers permeate the crowd as gossip and speculation begin to circulate. However, Neuvillette shuts everything down as he continues.
“The person here by my side today is [name],” gasps ring out in the silence, fragmenting every semblance of false tranquility that exists in the moment. “Yes, the very same [name] that was sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide due to suspected misdemeanours that resulted in an egregious death.”
Protests spread like wildfire through the rambunctious group of people gathered in front of you. Flames of disapproval threaten to engulf your entire being, stinging you with a rutilant aggression as you try to tune out everything.
“Silence,” Neuvillette commands. Thankfully, it’s enough to get everyone to settle down. “I apologize. For the past few weeks, I have concealed the true nature of the situation from you all. A while ago, I personally received a report detailing the suspicious activities of a company producing drinks as a front. Their more sinister schemes laid behind the scenes, as they produced toxins and other deadly substances away from the watchful eyes of the authorities. The composition of the poison they created was identical to that of the weapon used in [name]’s case. With this new evidence, we decided to reopen the investigation.”
Yet again, a shocked reaction is elicited from the crowd, and you begin to wonder how many times they’ll collectively gasp before the end of Neuvillette’s speech.
“When we looked into things more thoroughly, we discovered that the true culprit was Francis, a member of our very own Marechaussee Phantom. At the moment, he has been detained and is currently awaiting trial.”
Relief propagates amongst the crowd, blossoming in a pure flourish of unadulterated solace. A few people look at you with pity, each starlit glint of their eyes conveying their woe on your behalf.
Neuvillette waits this time, allowing the partygoers to mutter amongst themselves. When they begin to settle, he moves on to more positive news.
“I would like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to listen to my rather mundane explanations,” Neuvillette says. “Now for something more lighthearted.”
He gestures for you to take centre stage, and you reluctantly comply, gazing out at the ocean of people surrounding you.
“[Name] has finally been proven innocent, and as such, they will no longer be required to return to the Fortress of Meropide. This feast has been organized in their honour as a celebration of their return as well as an apology for years spent in isolation.”
Chants of your name begin to flood your ears along with cheers and apologies alike. At long last, you’ve been absolved of the burden wrongfully weighing on your shoulders.
“Welcome back,” Neuvillette whispers to you as he intertwines your fingers to help you off stage. “You’re finally home.”
You hum.
“Thank you.”
No one has the ability to predict the future, and fate’s ordainments are always an enigma to even the most omniscient entities that traverse Teyvat. You have no way of knowing how your relationship with Neuvillette will develop with the passage of time — whether it will mend or fade away as the last spotlight upon the very murder case that brought you back together fizzles out. However, you think you’ll take a chance and revel in his proximity for the time being. He’s proven that he still cares immensely over and over again.
Perhaps with enough patience, your seed of hope will bloom and fill the abyss that had once overtaken your heart, transforming it into a garden of romance reborn.
The weight of Neuvillette’s words begins to settle as you realize that yes, you really are home.
Even after a desolate rain of bitterness and sorrow, the feeling of your hand in his is still home — home sweet home.
thank you so much for reading!! sorry for the long wait riko!
synopsis: before departure, sunday needed to bid you his farewell and make his silent amends, rather than leaving his emotions unsolved.
contains: 1k7 word vomit, 2.7 quest spoilers, angst (& fluff <<< clickbait), childhood bestfriend implication, messy emotions, minor character studies (if u squint), meeting you after he met robin first.
forenotes: sunday is such an overthinker and lana del rey coded to me. however i’m not content with how i write the siblings here so i’m sorry if it doesn’t sit right with you crowbie 😭😭
header img by 隐世樱yyy on weibo. kindest regards to my two pookies @akutasoda and @vxnuslogy for brainrotting with me and proof-reading this piece for me, i love yall so much!
🎼 — ( ding ding!! a message for crowbie @asundries / @rainswept the receiver! )
merry christmas my dear director crow :stares_at_you: are you surprised that i am your secret santa ? (somebody is definitely not ready for sunday angst as a christmas gift ngl.) BRO IT'S YOU HAHAH.
jokes aside for now... iko wants to say that she is very blessed to have such a wonderful friend like you to be around, she hopes your relationship will continue to thrive and maintain as you both step into 2025 ahead! with every kindest words and this piece dedicated to you, she is once again wishing you a merry christmas and a happy new year! xoxo.
“dear mr. sunday, you have now finally witnessed the sun, your wish has been fulfilled.”
in the seemingly deafening silence of the radiant orange-hued sky, sunday stood still.
“however, before you depart,” that indistinct voice was a light and gentle echo but felt dripped with sarcasm in his ears—he believed it was his heart that spoke. the wistful glint in his eyes betrayed the repetitive chant of his rational determination, sabotaging and leaving him slightly wavered about his predetermined decision.
“are you completely certain you would leave penacony behind without regrets?”
was a prime fugitive like him allowed the privilege of deciding such a personal matter? ironically, he wouldn’t want his answer to that question to be anything else.
“…no, i do not.”
not when he never got the chance to justify himself to you before the day he abruptly vanished. vividly, it haunted him—your sad smile haunted him, indicating that he once again had disappointed somebody, and it shocked him at how he never planned that ‘somebody’ to be you. (he never planned to disappointed anyone, really.) it was almost laughable at one’s stupidity, the one who refused to recognise that your reaction he observed this time was never akin to the momentary awkwardness in your voice caused by his usual polite and harmless nonchalance to your little silent declarations out of affection. he heard your love, yet he had never responded.
contrary to the cold and refreshing thin air it seemed, the tip of his tongue felt bitter. sunday knew it all too well. it was the guilt of turning you down and neglecting you for more significant matters that he grew tired of experiencing once more; typically, all of his doubts could only be dissipated as soon as the bright smile he adored written on your face not long later, you seemed to be unfazed quick enough—a truly admirable yet disheartening scene he witnessed; carefree and understanding, that was what you were.
(sunday never admitted it but your radiant smile was the cause of the thumping heart in his chest, one that made his collected facade falter ever so slightly when looked at, and one suddenly brewing his stomach with guilt each time it didn’t match with your soulless gaze.)
sceptical, cunning man in the way he was, sunday was unsure if that was the very last time he ever saw you like that again after he had failed you so many times before…
you would come back, yes. that was what you’d always done, wasn’t it?
that was what you had always done.
not this time, though… you left him awaiting.
and when he was standing next to you in his cowardice disguise in the light but freezing-cold evening, admiring the way you blew out on your fingers gracefully, hot breaths turning into smoke, that breathtaking smile still, lips plumped red like roses in the white snow, the world stilled for a moment. (he wished it would last forever.) you looked happy and bright, he couldn’t search anywhere in your eyes for the adoration you once harboured, the one that used to be easily spotted every time your eyes met.
maybe you just didn’t know that the one you were conversing with wasn’t a mere dreamweaver.
maybe you still had feelings for him… maybe, it simply wasn't appropriate to discuss such private matters with a passerby, a fact he completely agrees.
but were you, though? after all this time? sunday felt his chest heavy. you were there, like a star within reach, but far enough to only be observed in the radiant sky. then suddenly and a little too late, it came to his perception that his heart had long been beating for you. and at the biggest loss of it all was he only realised, you and robin, were everything he had left.
was he too late to make amends?
you were beautiful, he’d take that. not to mention the way your hand loosely clung onto the smooth material of your slightly worn-out scarf. a maroon colour that utterly complimented your skin tone, he recognised that scarf.
“you have an exquisite scarf… it suits you.”
the dreamweaver couldn’t help the words that slipped “her” lips, “she” mentally cursed “herself” for saying such an odd thing, but your light laugh after the bewildered look you gave dissipated every quickened pulse of “hers”, completely drew all of “her” attention to your graceful demeanour, rather than what you were saying by the moment.
“xipe up above… please, hear my plea”
“it was a gift from an old friend, whom i really cherished.” the glowy tint of your lips arched into a thin smile, and, dear aeons… there it was, that same endearing look with so much stars swimming in your eyes. the look of love.
(two winters ago, your endearing shy look, heated cheeks as you reached out for the delicately box in his hands—a simple present for you for the first holiday ever spent together as adults, your fingers brushing against the comforting material as you opened it, eyes glimmered with joy. of course he remembered. that expression of yours imprinted in his mind, confused but amused at how his little gift has an effect on you, you were an adorable thing if he must admit.)
“forgive my desperation to sin just this one last time.”
“he went away for some reasons, i believed it was the same reason why my adoration was left unrequited,” you looked up at the sky, nostalgic. “it’s a little embarrassing to admit, don’t you think?”
at your simple and hearty laugh, sunday could only manage a silent shaky breath.
“please, xipe.”
“i do miss him, dearly,” you let out a light chuckle, nuzzling your face against the fuzzy fabric with the corner of your eyes crinkled. “do you think that i would be able to see him again?”
— “please for once, allow me to be deserving of them, to make amends for everything i’ve damaged”
with certainty, in his heart, that ‘everything’ was you. never one-sided, never unrequited.
sunday thought about you, ignoring the blooming feeling of overwhelmed emotions, his steps were restrained from approaching closer. but then your final question had the words die on his tongue, lingering like an illness that couldn’t be cure.
would your paths converge underneath the sun?
reality is different. having come this far, the boat that used to guide sunday here was burnt down, and there was no way of turning back.
“i miss you, too, dearly.” he wanted to say.
“i like you” or “the feeling is mutual” even, and how he wanted to tug the strands of your hair behind your ears like he always did back then the moment he saw them fell out of place. but sunday was still a coward. he wondered if you hated him, that you couldn’t bear witness the person you love disappeared then reappear and just begging for forgiveness, it kicked at his dignity and insecurities. perhaps… this barrier between you both was comfortable alright.
“i think he misses you, too.” words emboldened by the sudden courage but soon deflated when “she” meet your observant gaze. yeah… how could a nobody be so sure about that?
“…my apologies, please forgive such an bold assumption.” “she” cleared “her” throat.
“it’s okay, i’m glad that you get comfortable when talking to me.” and sunday realised that he had lost count of how many times he was mesmerized by the melody of your laugh, your soft hum.
the small talk could last for an eternity, that was the greediest wish sunday allowed himself to yearn for. (he thanked xipe for that.)
“mr. sunday, are you ready to board the express?” and he peeked over his shoulder. welt yang, his companion by pure serendipity, stopping on his steps and looked at him with anticipation.
by now, the sun has dipped deeper and almost disappeared in the horizon, purple-blue hued vast sky sprinkling with faint streaks of stars, city lights awaken, leaving the man with the small void in his chest, half-filled. heart spoke otherwise but mind obliged to the better, but wasn’t “better” always hurt most? it was all over, it’s time to go.
you studied the way robin was blowing out smoke, panting softly as she ran over to you not long after the fellow dreamweaver left. the expression on her face was what you couldn’t decipher, a frown was written, her smile was filled with sorrows, and it made you fumbled.
“it seems like you have met her, too.” she sighed with a smile, adjusting her scarf, which was also a gift from her dearest brother.
the dreamweaver did say an odd thing earlier before “she” departed, though. “she” claimed to only knew a thing or two about beliefs, but then you sensed the dejection in “her” tone before “she” clasped “her” hand together and seeming to close “her” eyes and wish despite the machinery face.
a mutter of sincerest apologies and best wishes for the person “she” wished to make amends to, followed by shaky chants of whispered please’s that sure was heart-warming. then “she” looked at you, “her” wistful and delighted expression was seen through somehow, how confusing, yet so beautiful and sympathetic.
and when “she” changed her gaze elsewhere, speaking out her final words before silence settled in between the two of you again.
“they mesmerised me, i should’ve recognised that sooner” and you think that was heartening. that it was good for her.
“i’m glad” said robin.
“you’re… glad?” you blinked, didn’t hold a grasp on why she seemed happy about it.
the singer only chuckled brightly, she nodded.
“what a pity that the story of yours was incomplete…” she trailed off.
“…[name], your name has been prayed.” you didn’t miss the way her eyes softened, a glowing hint of wetness then she looked away. “for now, we must wait for THEM to cast an eye upon his unfulfilled wish.”
when sunday was down on his knees, you were how he prayed.
synopsis: before departure, sunday needed to bid you his farewell and make his silent amends, rather than leaving his emotions unsolved.
contains: 1k7 word vomit, 2.7 quest spoilers, angst (& fluff <<< clickbait), childhood bestfriend implication, messy emotions, minor character studies (if u squint), meeting you after he met robin first.
forenotes: sunday is such an overthinker and lana del rey coded to me. however i’m not content with how i write the siblings here so i’m sorry if it doesn’t sit right with you crowbie 😭😭
header img by 隐世樱yyy on weibo. kindest regards to my two pookies @akutasoda and @vxnuslogy for brainrotting with me and proof-reading this piece for me, i love yall so much!
🎼 — ( ding ding!! a message for crowbie @asundries / @rainswept the receiver! )
merry christmas my dear director crow :stares_at_you: are you surprised that i am your secret santa ? (somebody is definitely not ready for sunday angst as a christmas gift ngl.) BRO IT'S YOU HAHAH.
jokes aside for now... iko wants to say that she is very blessed to have such a wonderful friend like you to be around, she hopes your relationship will continue to thrive and maintain as you both step into 2025 ahead! with every kindest words and this piece dedicated to you, she is once again wishing you a merry christmas and a happy new year! xoxo.
“dear mr. sunday, you have now finally witnessed the sun, your wish has been fulfilled.”
in the seemingly deafening silence of the radiant orange-hued sky, sunday stood still.
“however, before you depart,” that indistinct voice was a light and gentle echo but felt dripped with sarcasm in his ears—he believed it was his heart that spoke. the wistful glint in his eyes betrayed the repetitive chant of his rational determination, sabotaging and leaving him slightly wavered about his predetermined decision.
“are you completely certain you would leave penacony behind without regrets?”
was a prime fugitive like him allowed the privilege of deciding such a personal matter? ironically, he wouldn’t want his answer to that question to be anything else.
“…no, i do not.”
not when he never got the chance to justify himself to you before the day he abruptly vanished. vividly, it haunted him—your sad smile haunted him, indicating that he once again had disappointed somebody, and it shocked him at how he never planned that ‘somebody’ to be you. (he never planned to disappointed anyone, really.) it was almost laughable at one’s stupidity, the one who refused to recognise that your reaction he observed this time was never akin to the momentary awkwardness in your voice caused by his usual polite and harmless nonchalance to your little silent declarations out of affection. he heard your love, yet he had never responded.
contrary to the cold and refreshing thin air it seemed, the tip of his tongue felt bitter. sunday knew it all too well. it was the guilt of turning you down and neglecting you for more significant matters that he grew tired of experiencing once more; typically, all of his doubts could only be dissipated as soon as the bright smile he adored written on your face not long later, you seemed to be unfazed quick enough—a truly admirable yet disheartening scene he witnessed; carefree and understanding, that was what you were.
(sunday never admitted it but your radiant smile was the cause of the thumping heart in his chest, one that made his collected facade falter ever so slightly when looked at, and one suddenly brewing his stomach with guilt each time it didn’t match with your soulless gaze.)
sceptical, cunning man in the way he was, sunday was unsure if that was the very last time he ever saw you like that again after he had failed you so many times before…
you would come back, yes. that was what you’d always done, wasn’t it?
that was what you had always done.
not this time, though… you left him awaiting.
and when he was standing next to you in his cowardice disguise in the light but freezing-cold evening, admiring the way you blew out on your fingers gracefully, hot breaths turning into smoke, that breathtaking smile still, lips plumped red like roses in the white snow, the world stilled for a moment. (he wished it would last forever.) you looked happy and bright, he couldn’t search anywhere in your eyes for the adoration you once harboured, the one that used to be easily spotted every time your eyes met.
maybe you just didn’t know that the one you were conversing with wasn’t a mere dreamweaver.
maybe you still had feelings for him… maybe, it simply wasn't appropriate to discuss such private matters with a passerby, a fact he completely agrees.
but were you, though? after all this time? sunday felt his chest heavy. you were there, like a star within reach, but far enough to only be observed in the radiant sky. then suddenly and a little too late, it came to his perception that his heart had long been beating for you. and at the biggest loss of it all was he only realised, you and robin, were everything he had left.
was he too late to make amends?
you were beautiful, he’d take that. not to mention the way your hand loosely clung onto the smooth material of your slightly worn-out scarf. a maroon colour that utterly complimented your skin tone, he recognised that scarf.
“you have an exquisite scarf… it suits you.”
the dreamweaver couldn’t help the words that slipped “her” lips, “she” mentally cursed “herself” for saying such an odd thing, but your light laugh after the bewildered look you gave dissipated every quickened pulse of “hers”, completely drew all of “her” attention to your graceful demeanour, rather than what you were saying by the moment.
“xipe up above… please, hear my plea”
“it was a gift from an old friend, whom i really cherished.” the glowy tint of your lips arched into a thin smile, and, dear aeons… there it was, that same endearing look with so much stars swimming in your eyes. the look of love.
(two winters ago, your endearing shy look, heated cheeks as you reached out for the delicately box in his hands—a simple present for you for the first holiday ever spent together as adults, your fingers brushing against the comforting material as you opened it, eyes glimmered with joy. of course he remembered. that expression of yours imprinted in his mind, confused but amused at how his little gift has an effect on you, you were an adorable thing if he must admit.)
“forgive my desperation to sin just this one last time.”
“he went away for some reasons, i believed it was the same reason why my adoration was left unrequited,” you looked up at the sky, nostalgic. “it’s a little embarrassing to admit, don’t you think?”
at your simple and hearty laugh, sunday could only manage a silent shaky breath.
“please, xipe.”
“i do miss him, dearly,” you let out a light chuckle, nuzzling your face against the fuzzy fabric with the corner of your eyes crinkled. “do you think that i would be able to see him again?”
— “please for once, allow me to be deserving of them, to make amends for everything i’ve damaged”
with certainty, in his heart, that ‘everything’ was you. never one-sided, never unrequited.
sunday thought about you, ignoring the blooming feeling of overwhelmed emotions, his steps were restrained from approaching closer. but then your final question had the words die on his tongue, lingering like an illness that couldn’t be cure.
would your paths converge underneath the sun?
reality is different. having come this far, the boat that used to guide sunday here was burnt down, and there was no way of turning back.
“i miss you, too, dearly.” he wanted to say.
“i like you” or “the feeling is mutual” even, and how he wanted to tug the strands of your hair behind your ears like he always did back then the moment he saw them fell out of place. but sunday was still a coward. he wondered if you hated him, that you couldn’t bear witness the person you love disappeared then reappear and just begging for forgiveness, it kicked at his dignity and insecurities. perhaps… this barrier between you both was comfortable alright.
“i think he misses you, too.” words emboldened by the sudden courage but soon deflated when “she” meet your observant gaze. yeah… how could a nobody be so sure about that?
“…my apologies, please forgive such an bold assumption.” “she” cleared “her” throat.
“it’s okay, i’m glad that you get comfortable when talking to me.” and sunday realised that he had lost count of how many times he was mesmerized by the melody of your laugh, your soft hum.
the small talk could last for an eternity, that was the greediest wish sunday allowed himself to yearn for. (he thanked xipe for that.)
“mr. sunday, are you ready to board the express?” and he peeked over his shoulder. welt yang, his companion by pure serendipity, stopping on his steps and looked at him with anticipation.
by now, the sun has dipped deeper and almost disappeared in the horizon, purple-blue hued vast sky sprinkling with faint streaks of stars, city lights awaken, leaving the man with the small void in his chest, half-filled. heart spoke otherwise but mind obliged to the better, but wasn’t “better” always hurt most? it was all over, it’s time to go.
you studied the way robin was blowing out smoke, panting softly as she ran over to you not long after the fellow dreamweaver left. the expression on her face was what you couldn’t decipher, a frown was written, her smile was filled with sorrows, and it made you fumbled.
“it seems like you have met her, too.” she sighed with a smile, adjusting her scarf, which was also a gift from her dearest brother.
the dreamweaver did say an odd thing earlier before “she” departed, though. “she” claimed to only knew a thing or two about beliefs, but then you sensed the dejection in “her” tone before “she” clasped “her” hand together and seeming to close “her” eyes and wish despite the machinery face.
a mutter of sincerest apologies and best wishes for the person “she” wished to make amends to, followed by shaky chants of whispered please’s that sure was heart-warming. then “she” looked at you, “her” wistful and delighted expression was seen through somehow, how confusing, yet so beautiful and sympathetic.
and when “she” changed her gaze elsewhere, speaking out her final words before silence settled in between the two of you again.
“they mesmerised me, i should’ve recognised that sooner” and you think that was heartening. that it was good for her.
“i’m glad” said robin.
“you’re… glad?” you blinked, didn’t hold a grasp on why she seemed happy about it.
the singer only chuckled brightly, she nodded.
“what a pity that the story of yours was incomplete…” she trailed off.
“…[name], your name has been prayed.” you didn’t miss the way her eyes softened, a glowing hint of wetness then she looked away. “for now, we must wait for THEM to cast an eye upon his unfulfilled wish.”
when sunday was down on his knees, you were how he prayed.
