Neuvilette and Wriothesley have their first dinner date in two decades. Neuvillette sails home to find the sea feeling... wrong.

CW: Contains Smut

-

So, Wriothesley makes two mistakes.

The first is a particularly stupid one. He'd told Monsieur Neuvillette that they'd share dinner aboard the Winglet, which isn't so unusual. They've done that before, enough times so that Neuvillette knows where the kitchen is, and Xiangling understands his particularly snobbish taste buds. He's spent enough time aboard that he knows where the towels are folded and tucked away; that he knows where to get fresh water for the cistern; that he has an extra toothbrush in the little cup over by the sink.

What Wriothesley does instead is book a reservation at the very nice Liuli Pavilion because Xiangling knows the head chef, and it's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted.

It's too nice, though. The Winglet is safe, it's home. It's easier for Wriothesley to forget his pesky feelings when he's too busy focusing on the rise and fall of the ocean waves. Land is unforgiving. Sitting at a table with Neuvillette will leave Wriothesley vulnerable, and he won't be able to run. But gods, the idea of it, of sharing an intimate dinner together—

No, no.

This is his second mistake, thinking that this isn't a date, and even Clorinde calls him out on his bullshit.

"This is going to spell trouble," she tells him. Clorinde's boots rest on his desk, crossed at the ankle, as she leans back on two chair legs. "You know that, right?"

"I—" Fuck, he's dumb. Wriothesley drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "To be fair, I think I crossed that line a long time ago."

Clorinde snorts. "Yeah, like when you first fucked him."

"Do you have to phrase it like that?"

She gives him a shrewd look. "As opposed to what?" she asks. "Are you still calling this casual?" She snorts again. "People don't fuck casually for two decades."

No, they don't. It's no wonder that Wriothesley has fallen hard, or that Neuvillette has softened to his overtures.

Clorinde sighs, taking pity on his poor soul. "Well, the damage is done. How'd he respond?"

Wriothesley turns back to the mirror and does his best to tame his wild and unruly hair. "Respond to what?"

"To you asking him on a date."

Neuvillette was more than just receptive, he'd reached out and held him by the wrist, and then reassured Wriothesley that it would be nice.

"He said it'd be polite," says Wriothesley carefully, prompting Clorinde to raise an eyebrow.

"Polite."

"Hang on, he—look, I've never seen such an expression on his face. That's the word he used, but his actions, his demeanor..."

Clorinde's arms are crossed over her chest, and she lets loose the longest, most aggrieved sound Wriothesley has ever heard. "Did you know that they crew's had bets on you for years? I've won the monthly pool for a long time—I always bet that the two of you won't get your heads out of your asses."

"Clorinde."

"Look, boss, if you love the guy, just fuckin' tell him."

Wriothesley cannot, will not. Neuvillette, for all that he allows him, for all the times that he shares Wriothesley's bed, and those touches, and those heated moments, will never overlook his loyalty to his work. "Clorinde, you know he's a man bound by duty."

Her jaw clenches slightly. "Yes, well, that means you made a shitty choice. Don't let it fuck with the ship, or our job."

"It won't. I won't. It's never." Wriothesley has remained impartial, too, in his own right. He distracts himself by fumbling with his tie and changes the subject. "Do I look halfway decent, at least?"

Clorinde gives him a look up and down. "You don't look like you crawled out of the seaweed, so a decent start. Have you at least bathed?"

"Yes." As much as he can with a clean bucket of water. He had to bribe Xiangling for some of the kitchen stores.

"Fancy." Clorinde's boots drop against the floor with a thud. She stands, brushing off her trousers, and crosses the cabin with heavy footsteps. "The crew teases you," she says, resting a hand against his shoulder, "but Wriothesley, if this makes you happy, if this is what you want, then you should be honest about it."

"You just said—"

"I know what I said," cuts in Clorinde. "But you aren't the only person who's gotten to know Monsieur Neuvillette over the years. That man... he values loyalty, yes, and he's traditional, but he also values honesty."

"Do you think that he has no idea?" snaps Wriothesley. He immediately regrets it. He grunts, hanging his head, feeling utterly exhausted. "Fuck, Clorinde, he knows. I know. We're just... you already said it, you can't casually fuck for as long as we have and not..." Wriothesley lets out a bitter laugh. "I'm in over my head, aren't I? Clorinde, I don't do relationships. I've never done relationships."

"You don't?" Clorinde bursts into laughter. "You idiot. You're in one now—no don't give me that look. Listen to me, I'm your First Mate, and right now, the only one not thinking with my dick."

"You don't have one," grouses Wriothesley.

Clorinde shoots him a sly grin. "Depends on who you ask," she replies, which, gods, he doesn't need to hear that. Her expression softens. "You have a more stable relationship with Monsieur Neuvillette than you do with half of our crew. Yes, it's weird and wild, but he always comes back, he turns a blind eye, he just... he looks at you differently. You know that. It's why you asked him to dinner, and it's why he said yes."

Wriothesley doesn't want this to be a complicated thing. Damn his mouth, damn his irrational, intrusive desire to wine and dine Neuvillette, and damn the man for agreeing to it.

Clorinde sighs, taking pity on him. "Wash your face, at least," she mutters, reaching out to re-work his tie. "A fresh shave, or something. Put some damn effort into it."

"This is a mistake, Clorinde."

"Everyone makes mistakes. One thing I do know—you're more sufferable in the days after you see him."

Wriothesley shoves her away, and Clorinde laughs, elbowing him back. She's right, though. Neuvillette never means to stay over but he often does, and Wriothesley spends the next days over the moon. He looks back at his reflection in the mirror, wincing slightly at the scruff that covers his face. He hasn't shaved in days.

"Right, the razor. You know—I don't think he's ever seen me clean-shaven. We don't usually..."

It's too domestic, too personal, even if Neuvillette has seen a side of him no one else has. Complicated. Wriothesley doesn't like the complicated nature of this.

Clorinde reaches out and grabs his chin tightly, forcing Wriothesley to look at her. "Just relax. You don't need to impress the guy." His jaw aches when she lets go, and she leaves him alone in his cabin with the wave of her hand as she slips through the door.

"Relax," he repeats.

Casual sex is easier. Fucking each other without strings attached is easier.

Wriothesley reaches for his razor with a sigh.

#

Wriothesley expects Neuvillette to be his usual, crotchety self, which he is—until he catches sight of Wriothesley, who's dressed himself up considerably. He took Clorinde's advice and shaved, his face feeling naked without it's usual scruff. And his clothing... he'd dug around in his closet for something nicer than his ratty old vest and trousers. The shirt's a little tight, but serviceable, and Wriothesley feels his cheeks burn when Neuvillette's gaze rakes across him.

"You look..." Neuvillette loses his words.

"I clean up well, I think." Wriothesley shoots him a wink.

Neuvillette clears his throat. "Yes, I—yes. And this restaurant... have you eaten here before?"

"Nope," replies Wriothesley, his lips popping on the end of the word. "I owe Xiangling a favor now."

The upward twitch of Neuvillette's mouth has Wriothesley's gut fluttering. A smile, just the barest hint of one. "Well, let's not waste any time, then."

Dinner goes well. Despite the high-class backdrop and the too-fancy food, they maintain their usual bickering and banter. It's always been lighthearted. Neuvillette is polite but brutal with his words, and Wriothesley just leans right into it.

But this time, they also lean into each other, fingers lingering as they pass the family-styled dishes between them, knees knocking underneath the table. Wriothesley thinks it might be a little too warm in there. Even Neuvillette is flush in the face, a delightful pink dusting them.

It is nice, though, just... sharing dinner. Having the time to catch up. Usually they do this post fucking, laying about in that syrupy-sweet aftermath before Neuvillette drags himself from the sheets.

They stay through dessert, and Wriothesley learns that Neuvillette can, in fact, laugh. Despite his tailored finery, the crisply ironed edges of his lapels, Neuvillette seems... dressed down, at ease in a way that Wriothesley's never seen, not even in his bed. And fuck, if that doesn't make this worse.

Not a mistake. It can't be, right? Wriothesley rests his elbow on the table rudely, cradling his chin against his knuckles, and just listens to Neuvillette drone on about the latest sailing codes soon to be enacted. It's sweet. Domestic, even. It's easy to pretend that they've been together forever, which—

Well, they have been. Kind of. It's just as Clorinde said earlier: "People don't fuck casually for two decades." This hasn't been casual for Wriothesley for a long time, and he's tired of ignoring it. Neuvillette throws a wrench into it, though. Neuvillette allows him enough things to make Wriothesley think they could have a chance with one glaring obsession—and that's his unwavering loyalty to Fontaine.

"Impartial," he always tells him, "I must remain impartial in everything that I do. One day, Wriothesley, I cannot let you go."

Neuvillette's been saying that for twenty years, long enough that it makes Wriothesley laugh every time he does.

"What are you thinking about?"

Wriothesley hums softly, blinking away from his thoughts. "Ah, apologies. This desert is ravishing, no?"

"Ravishing?" Neuvillette's gaze glints, amused. "You weren't thinking about that."

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

Neuvillette huffs. Dessert is good, brilliant, really. Perfectly egg tarts with flaky, crumbling crusts. Neuvillette takes a bite of one politely, and all that Wriothesley can think about is retiring away for the night.

And no, not just for the sex. Wriothesley misses curling around Neuvillette in his too-small cot, drowning in his scent. His weight is comforting, just as his soft snores are when he's relaxed and sleeping, and Wriothesley has found that he sleeps better in his presence. Lately, Neuvillette stays and leaves in the morning. Wriothesley would trade his damn ship to wake up to him every morning.

Maybe. Fuck.

"Wriothesley."

"Hm?"

"You're nearly done."

Wriothesley's gaze tips to his plate, where there's a mostly polished-off red bean bun. A couple of bites left. Once he's done, their meal will be over, and they'll part for the night. When Wriothesley meets his face again, Neuvillette's gaze is warm and inviting. Open. A little too bare. He's enjoyed himself, and Wriothesley feels like he's seen a side of this man he's never been privy to before now, that even Neuvillette can settle slightly and loosen his collar a bit.

Metaphorically. He's still dressed to the nines, his collar buttoned right to his neck, but it's the thought that counts.

Still, there's something different about sharing a meal and not just shoving food into their face after a good row in the sheets.

"Are you in a hurry, Monsieur?"

Neuvillette's mouth falls open. "...No. Not particularly."

Wriothesley's mouth curls into a smile.

#

"Fuck, I've missed this." This is easy to say, the words flying from Wriothesley's mouth without hesitation. He's got Neuvillette pressed against the wall of his cabin, fingers digging into his hips. Wriothesley's face his tucked against Neuvillette's neck, his lips mouth at the edge of that damned coat collar. "I know I said that earlier, and I know that we..." Wriothesley grunts. "Sucking you off isn't enough."

"Wriothesley—"

"Sweetheart, please."

Neuvillette hates and loves that term of endearment. His face always twists, but it's with fondness, with affectionate exasperation. He says, "Sedene cleared my schedule until late tomorrow."

"So you can stay?" Wriothesley feels Neuvillette's throat underneath his mouth. "I want you to stay."

He doesn't think he's ever blatantly asked for that. Implied it, yes. Indirectly referenced with sweet words and beating around the bush, absolutely. Neuvillette is quiet for long enough that Wriothesley worries he's crossed a line, that he's read this entire thing wrong.

Which he hasn't. Fuck, he knows he hasn't, but anxiety creeps into his bones nonetheless, curdling the heat in Wriothesley's belly.

But then Neuvillette cups his cheeks and kisses him, and it's a hungry kiss, with tongue and teeth. Neuvillette moans, tasting Wriothesley, licking into his mouth, pushing at him until they're stumbling across the room.

"The things you say," murmurs Neuvillette, pressing a hand flat against Wriothesley's sternum as they fall into the bed. He sits overtop him, thighs straddling Wriothesley's hips.

"I just... Neuvillette, you don't have to. Stay, I mean."

Neuvillette blinks slowly, preternaturally, inhumanly, and fuck if it isn't gorgeous. "I never said that," is his quiet reply. "Wriothesley—beloved—I would think it obvious that I intend to stay over."

Being called that never helps. Wriothesley grinds against Neuvillette, desperate for friction, desperate to feel his body against him. Neuvillette is quick to respond, eager to lean forward to capture his mouth again. This time, though, it's slower, sweeter. His palms are cool against Wriothesley's heated skin.

"Too many clothes," mutters Wriothesley when they break to catch a breath.

Neuvillette laughs, tracing the lines of his cheekbones. He pauses and just looks, tracing old scars, the crooked line of Wriothesley's nose, and it's easy to see that things have shifted again.

It's been subtle over the years, but the date, their dinner, Wriothesley's plea for staying over... Neuvillette looks both thrilled and hesitant.

"Mora for your thoughts?" asks Wriothesley.

"Were that I could have my way, things would be..." Neuvillette snorts, cutting himself off. He never expands his thought and Wriothesley doesn't probe. "It's no matter," says Neuvillette, divesting himself of his clothing, which is usually a perfunctory thing.

But this time he is slower. He watches Wriothesley as his clothing are dropped to the sodden floorboards of the ship, and Wriothesley is so wholly captivated that he jumps when Neuvillette's hands find his trousers next.

Their fucking has a different cadence to it this time. It ebbs and flows, swelling and retreating like the ocean waves as they pick and pull at each other. Neuvillette still watches him, still looks at Wriothesley with a strange, calculating gaze that's both warm and distant. He moans when Wriothesley opens him up on his fingers; keens when he sinks his cock deep, and just like that they're moored again by their pleasure.

Wriothesley finds it hard to focus. Neuvillette rides him slowly. He rolls his hips with purpose—but the purpose is to drag this out, to end Wriothesley with a slow-burn mindless passion. Neuvillette touches himself too, taking hold of his cock, stroking his length in time with every rise and fall.

"Beloved," he murmurs. His expression is pinched, cheeks pinked with pleasure. He groans, his chest heaving, back arching as his movements because shorter, harsher, stilted.

"Fuck, like that." Wriothesley grips Neuvillette by the hips and holds him there. He fucks into him hard, deep, and Neuvillette chokes on his next sound. "Feels so you. You always feel so—"

He could die like this, probably. And that earlier thought, of how he'd give up his ship just to have Neuvillette at his side every day—yeah he would. Clorinde would kill him. Wriothesley's never wanted to settle down, he was made by the seas, practically, but Neuvillette tethers him to the earth in a way that no one else does.

Wriothesley spills with that thought on his tongue, nearly making a fool of himself, thinking about begging for that. Neuvillette is greedy; a greedy... whatever he is, his mouth curling as Wriothesley jerks, filling him up.

Neuvillette squeezes his ass around him. Jerks his own length faster, driving himself towards his end, and all that Wriothesley can do is watch and guide him through it.

"You're close, I can tell."

"Wriothesley—"

"Are you going to come for me?"

"Wriothesley."

Wriothesley curls his hand around Neuvillette's and tightens that grip. A few more movements, a few more strokes of his dick has Neuvillette cracking under the pressure, spending himself all over Wriothesley's stomach and chest.

There is nothing quite like the sight of it—Neuvillette losing himself in such a way. He's so straight-laced, so stoic, so stern; but here he's loosened and slack. Here, he whimpers as he rides that wave of pleasure, whines as he watches Wriothesley scoop up his come, bringing it to his mouth for a taste.

"You—you wicked, wicked man."

Wriothesley smiles, cleaning up his fingers, letting the bitter tang of his spend wash over his tongue.

This is when Neuvillette paws at him and pulls off. He'll go to the cistern and wash, and pull his shirt back on, and waffle about as he decides what to do next. This time, though, when Neuvillette slides off, he just wipes Wriothesley down with his discarded shirt and leaves whatever mess is left beyond that.

Neuvillette slots against his side, uncaring that he's sweaty, or disheveled, or anything less than put together. His cheek is cool against Wriothesley's pec, and he nuzzles the wiry hair that covers the area.

Unusual. More than welcome. Wriothesley lifts a hand and tentatively drags his fingers across Neuvillette's scalp. "You're staying," he says. He knew Neuvillette would, but...

Neuvillette hums, a soft, drifting sound. "You smell good," he murmurs. "You always smell good, but now you smell like me, and I—" He must catch himself, thinking his words odd. "Never mind that."

He's always saying that—never mind that.

It just makes Wriothesley mind and want to know more. What is Neuvillette? How is his nature different? He's no fool, he's seen the fangs, and the forked tongue; felt the claws that drag across his body and raise goose flesh in their wake. He has many a theory and no answers.

But it has also never mattered, not when the end result is Neuvillette purring against his side as he rubs his cheek all over him. The small things, Wriothesley supposes. He likes the weird and small things that make Neuvillette unique.

"Dinner was nice." Wriothesley winces the moment he says it, the small talk feeling forced. "I... we should do it again. I think. If you want."

Neuvillette traces old scars with the pads of his fingers. He doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no, and by now, Wriothesley knows that a lack of an answer might as well be an affirmative.

They fall asleep like that, tangled in a mess underneath the sheets. They wake like that in the morning, too.

#

The next morning, Clorinde watches them with a critical eye as they part ways.

"Don't pay attention to her," says Wriothesley, just loud enough to give her a plaintive fuck off.

Neuvillette's gaze follows, sliding to her. "She's staring."

"Let her. What's she going to do? Shoot you?"

Neuvillette's brow furrows as he looks back at Wriothesley, his gaze settling on the scar right underneath his eye. Right. That. Wriothesley remembers the sting of the bullet whizzing across his cheek. Clorinde's aim is fucking perfect.

"That was a warning shot," says Wriothesley. "She missed on purpose. It was decades ago. And now she works for me, so it's all good."

"Pardon me for worrying—"

"You worry about me?" Neuvillette frowns, his mouth pulling into a terse line. Wriothesley laughs, squeezing his elbow as he changes the subject. "This is my shirt."

"Yes, well, I wasn't thinking clearly last night and ruined mine."

That doesn't mean he's ever gone home wearing Wriothesley's clothing. There's something else to it, a deeper meaning lost on Wriothesley, but before he can ask, Neuvillette continues.

"I'll clean it and bring it back, obviously. Next time."

"Next time," repeats Wriothesley. "Well, you do have a terrible habit of chasing after me."

Neuvillette's mouth twitches ever so slightly at that. "There is something to be said about bad habits, but—"

"Alright, I'm stepping in," cuts in Clorinde. "That's enough sexual tension to last a few years, and I'm sick of seeing it. Just kiss him goodbye already."

Neuvillette looks as if she's spawned a second head. "Miss Clorinde, I would never—"

Wriothesley pulls Neuvillette's face toward him for a kiss, a deep, sweeping one with tongue; a kiss that leaves some of his crew turning away with red faces, and that leaves Clorinde gagging several paces to their left.

Neuvillette lets him. Neuvillette responds, his hand curled into Wriothesley's shirt, a soft moan bubbling from his throat before they part. "Wriothesley," he hisses, exasperated.

Wriothesley smiles, planting another short and sweet one on his mouth. "They know. They've known for years. There's no need to hide it. Clorinde's right, though. You've got to get out of here before someone comes looking for you."

Because, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter if they love each other, or that everyone knows; Neuvillette is still the Commander of the Fontaine High Seas command, and Wriothesley is his long-rivaled quarry.

Neuvillette cups his cheek, thumbing over the old scar, and then pulls away. "Until the next time," he says, as he always does.

"Of course."

Wriothesley notices that when Neuvillette leaves his boat this time, his chest is still light, and his stomach still flutters. He doesn't dislike it. But he does dislike Clorinde's knowing smirk.

And if, when they shove off later, heading back towards Fontaine, the Palais Mermonia is spotted keeping a respectful distance behind them... well, no one thinks one damn thing about it. Wriothesley waves it off in favor of bookkeeping.

#

Parlaying with Wriothesley is always... enlightening.

"How was the date?"

"Dinner," corrects Neuvillette, "was nice."

Sedene leans against the door to his cabin, stocky little arms crossed over her chest. She waits. Says nothing. Neuvillette squirms in his seat and eventually continues with, "Fine, fine—it was a date."

"Monsieur Neuvillette, I don't think that there's a damn person on this boat who didn't think it was."

Sovereigns, how infuriating. Neuvillette has enough on his plate without having to think of his wayward feelings and how he's—potentially—in love with a pirate.

(It's easier to say potentially; it makes things no less complicated, but at least Neuvillette can feign ignorance on a lack of understanding human emotions. Yes, he's read enough books to know. Yes, he yearns for Wriothesley more often than not, and after last night he already misses him, already aches to be reunited, but that is beside the point. Neuvillette must remain professional, and fucking the man he's supposed to bring in on charges is... not.)

Sedene sighs and steps into his cabin. "Teasing aside, I hope you enjoyed the little vacation. How long are we going to tail him?"

Until I can claim him properly as a mate.

Neuvillette squeezes the bridge of his nose and files that thought away for never.

"We've put up enough pretense. Several more hours should suffice and then we'll head east. We should be crossing the border—" Neuvillette pauses just as he says this.

With his Sovereignty comes a connection to the sea in Fontaine that others cannot begin to fathom. They've just crossed from Liyue's Jade Sea into Fontainian waters and things feel... off.

Neuvillete's face scrunches as he looks out the porthole.

"Sir?"

"I... do not know how to describe it. Something is wrong. The sea feels... wrong. Uneasy, unsettled."

Sedene's brow furrows.

Neuvillette taps his chin. "Sedene, fetch me a raven. I need to pen a letter to Lady Furina."

She nods, dipping slightly at the waist before leaving.

Later, when she returns, raven in hand, Neuvillette has finished his missive.

Furina, it reads, I am back within home waters, but something is wrong. Keep up your ruse as I investigate. Eyes and ears open. Sovereignspeed.

As the raven flies off, Neuvillette looks at the Winglet off in the distance. He tries to ignore the dread that he feels deep within his breast.