[ In his young life, Lyney had enough pride to bring his head to the clouds. He has to stand tall, to keep from drowning in the harsh waters of the world. The world was not kind to children like him, barely a 'man' and still he must protect so many of his family members... His loved ones.
"Lyney. He ensured I was safe. In his own way." "In his own way?! He never should have touched you!" "I do not think he is our enemy. Enter Logic Mode like me, you'll see." "Do not. Lynette, you know what Father said!" "I know. However, you saw what he did during all of this. He was like us." "Like us?" "He did things in the way he had to. Can you blame him, brother?"
He could. Time and time again – that smug grin and calm eyes... the ones that felt lonely and tired. Lyney will never forget the look on his face before that darling nurse shot him.
So, now... Lyney keeps an eye out for her as he walks down the hallways of the elevators leading to the Duke's headquarters. Meropide stunk like saltwater and metal, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Directed inside, he feels a sense of control stripped away as the Duke summons his guest in. Lynette insisted he make amends, to thank him for helping when he could. It wasn't needed, in his opinion. Why was he not thanking Lady Navia? Or Monsieur Neuvillette? Or Lady Furina herself? He's stuck with someone who he'd kill if it came down to it, challenged by his own masculinity and inability to keep his family safe.
Pah. Don't lose that mask... The giant doors shut behind him and the neatly wrapped package was gripped tighter in his arms. Lynette's idea was never one he'd question but... boy, did he hate it. Only she and Father could make him do something like this. Something that makes him feel small.
Wriothesley doesn't mind--it is, like most days, a quiet day within Meropide--but he can't help lifting an eyebrow upon learning who his visitor is. The Fatui kid. Lyney. Is he here to finish what he started? Hard to picture him bringing along a basket of confectionary after what transpired between the two of them. But Wriothesley calls him in regardless, hears the doors to his office open and close one floor below.
Best not keep him waiting, he supposes.
He signs off on one last intake paper, shuffles the small pile collected upon his desk, and gets to his feet. At least Lyney is here purely in the context of visitation; he'd prefer not to have the kid in his care again as an inmate. He makes his way down the stairs leisurely, stopping midway. Takes in the sight of him. It's not rare, exactly, but he never does quite get used to the sight of youth like that in a place like the Fortress.
He crosses his arms. ]
I don't have her this time, if that's what you're here for.
[ Like a rush of cold air, Lyney nearly shivers at the sight. Someone who had brought his blood to a boil, made him hate and fear all at once. Emotions he didn't like having... ]
She's safe at home, waiting for me. [ He says calmly, stepping inward with that box to his chest. ] She sends her regards and I'm a mere delivery boy, it seems. Here. From her.
[ He lifts it up just a little, arms extended far. ]
There's nothing nefarious in here, you can even smell her perfume on it.
[ The man didn't deserve to smell her delicate scent, but he bites his tongue. ]
[ It was self defense. He'll say it again and again. Lynette was a capable, beautiful woman with skills that any worker in their little home could home to achieve. Working in the shadows, Lynette couldn't be matched... which is why they wanted to shine line to her. When they do, they corner her. Enemies to the House, fat rich cats from Sumeru moved into the city of Fontaine, with cabins sprinkled in the countryside.
It took Lyney two days to find her, stowed away in the mountains and it took two minutes for the cabin to burn to the ground and leave an enemy of the Fatui crawling out with his face melting off. Someone who wronged Father and the kindness she showed... they survive, but barely.
Months pass and soon, Lyney stands trial in an arson and attempted murder.
The trial was long, arduous and with the right evidence – he is cleared of one charge, but not the other. The arson had ruined a quarter mile of sacred forest, legally protected and thus...
Six months, minimum.
That is what was deemed appropriate.
The clang of metal pipes and smell of saltwater brings him back to the Fortress. Back to the Duke's graces. It takes a long time to get Lyney to talk, but when he does... he doesn't shut up. ]
Here. Two stacks this week.
[ Of envelopes, letters sent to his siblings. 14 for Lynette, 6 for Freminet. One for Father. ]
You're sure they're not going to be slow in delivery?
I'm in charge of Meropide, kid, not the postal service.
[ And with that in mind, he really ought to reiterate that Lyney can bring these to the mail room's drop box. But he has the feeling the instructions will fall on deaf ears: Lyney likely doesn't want his mail seen to by a faceless facet of Meropide's system and its unfamiliar staff of sorters, but by someone he can actually put a name to. He can have that. For the right amount of coupons.
Wriothesley sighs.
Forget the coupons for now--they shouldn't even be having this exchange, not after that meeting so many months back. Honestly. What happened to steering clear of here? Keeping his affairs away from this place? Wriothesley isn't one to dwell on the details--either you're here or you're not, and if you are, then get to work--but he's found himself inexplicably peeved by Lyney's return to the Fortress. He had first suspected this might be Arlecchino's doing again, that Lyney might not have had a choice in the matter, but a copy of the case file provided to him by Neuvillette suggests that's not remotely the situation at hand. Lyney is here on account of his own decisions. Bottom line. And Wriothesley isn't sure he likes that any better than he likes the dashed prospect of the Harbinger sending him this way. ]
[ He doesn’t care. He wasn’t suppose to be more than a magician yet here he was — wearing far too many hats and trying to live too many lives. Something caught up with him.
When Lyney shuts his eyes, he can remember the husk of a man crawling outwards of the fires he set, how even then… he reached for them. For her.
He didn’t want to do it, but he made a promise and that was its weight in gold. Untrustworthy as he was with his loyalty, he doesn’t turn back on that.
So, he grips the stacks of letters and slides them further across Wriothesley’s desk. ]
Please.
[ No snark, no amount of anything cocky — just… a plea. ]
I ask for nothing else than the mail to be delivered with care. I would say it was in your duties to ensure someone as dangerous as me isn’t sending suspicious letters. Read them, I don’t care, Your Grace.
[ He is wounded, a cat that is holding his pain inside and only letting a few flicks of annoyance show. Never complaining, never asking for more — just this once. ]
I’ll take double shifts to make up for our transactions every week.
[ With no other plans in place, Wriothesley intends to spend the evening unwinding with a book--a gift from a former inmate with a heartfelt note penned in the flyleaf, the plot some kind of fantasy affair. Quite the bold pick when mystery novels are all the rage. They are still all the rage, right? Such was the case on the surface the last time he checked.
It's not a bad book, no, but at some point the lines begin to blur. He reads a paragraph three times before realizing he's taken nothing from it. He might just be tired of reading, a consequence of running numbers most of the day. He's about to start in on a fourth attempt when a knock sounds at his office door. It's just as well. ]
[ He kept his head low. No one brought up Lyney's behavior, nor did they report him for anything suspicious. Any magic that he did was slight of hand. Utensils appearing, confetti made of paper napkins – little things that brought joy to newcomers like him and something different to long-term residents.
He mains the coupons he owes back easily.
...But that tip.
...He would be a prideful thing first, a hardworker second. Of course, it comes to a head when the job he needs to accomplish this sends him into the pipes. Lyney's out of his usual attire – oil and dirt on his bare forearms and a tight shirt clinging to him like a second skin when he's done. Repairing a connector inside one of the central hub pipes wasn't easy, but he doesn't complain.
Only one small enough to fit inside, of course.
His slacks droop at his hips and it was like a different boy when Lyney walks in – a product of this Fortress for the first time since sentencing. Less of being dolled up, presentable, and seen...
Lyney could blend in at this rate now that workers were retiring for the night.
When he finds Wriothesley, he offers his hand out. A nice bundle of coupons tied with a bow. ]
Hope I'm not disturbing you, but want to make sure to get this to you.
[ ...Right, the coupons. Not that he'd forgotten, or anything--he meant it when he said he'd extend Lyney's sentence in the event that he failed--but he had been doing his best to put the bulk of that tiff out of his mind until now. And more or less succeeding.
He looks the boy over, then takes the coupons from him. He's at the point where he can more or less eyeball these things. Either it's the right amount, or Lyney has pulled off a hell of a trick. ]
I'm glad you did. Guess I'm headed to the surface tomorrow.
[ It isn’t long until letters return to Wriothesley’s office for Lyney. One for each one sent out. Unimaginative envelopes, plain white and blends in with the assortment received.
But for Lyney? It was noted to return to the Duke of anything suspicious was to arise.
Freminet’s letters were fine, if not a little lonely. He wants to show his new diving spot when Lyney returns to him most of all.
Lynette’s are mostly untouched except for a letter with a note on top: “inappropriate” it reads.
Lyney,
The hours feel like years and it brings me back to nights under a starless sky. Where the steam from the pipes would black out any twinkles…
I don’t like it.
However, you are already nearing a month or so. Those hours are inconsequential to you returning to me. You promised you always would and I know not to disbelieve you.
I am returning to work this week for Father. They are unhappy that Freminet is pulling your workload for mundane matters. Your usual day to days.
She scolded him enough to bring tears and I don’t know how to feel. How do you do this? Oh, my brother, your warmth has left us without. Left my bed cold, left my heart frigid.
I will do everything I can to provide. To stay strong when you have done so many times before. My promise to you, pinky promise like we made as children.
… The man went to a care facility today. He is trying to recuperate his throat. To give some Interview. I don’t like it.
The Gardes are ensuring he does not have total freedom but he has more than you.
It’s not fair.
Return to me.
Love, Lynette
The weight of that letter folds in two papers but the other marked one… only a few choice words.
“Do not stray from me again, lamb. -A”
Lyney is in his bunk, fiddling with the tension of the cotton sheets and trying his best to make such a thing comfortable. He really was having issues sleeping, but he feels cold beyond anything. The same as Lynette.
He finishes up and gets called — a demand from a subordinate that the Duke is requesting him for an update on some task he’s been focused on this week.
Technically true, but there’s something hanging in the air that Lyney isn’t picking up on. Secrets begging to be revealed, threats that don’t sit well.
Lyney knocks a sing-song way before entering. Eyes canvassing over the room before making the trek to that familiar desk. ]
You called? I told the guy it’s not able to be worked on until the water subsides in the overflow tank. So if it’s about that…
[ True to his word, Wriothesley has the letters delivered in the overworld. He also extends a request to the manager of Meropide's mail room: until further notice, anything from the House of Hearth goes to his desk before it reaches its intended correspondent. Not for suspicion, which would be the typical reason for bypassing the usual channels--rather to make sure Lyney gets his mail at all. The agreement had only stipulated that Wriothesley would get the mail delivered safely in exchange for coupons--nothing to say of what might happen to the eventual replies--but he feels some obligation to see to it that Lyney's letters aren't interfered with more than necessary in the usual cycle of prison correspondence.
That being said, there's only so much he can do with the systems in place. The letters back to him still have to go through the mail room for the usual checks--contraband, and the like--before they make it to Wriothesley's desk. And so they're opened by the time they're in Wriothesley's hands.
He's just about due for a meeting when the letters are given to him by a guard, and so he can't have the contents sent along immediately. He means to stow them temporarily in one of his desk drawers until he can have them given to their intended recipient. Which is when it happens.
One of the envelopes--marked "inappropriate"; a designation he'll really have to have the mail room do away with entirely, being that 'inappropriate' does not equal 'dangerous' or 'anyone else's damned business'--is stuffed carelessly, and the contents spill out onto his desk. Wriothesley isn't one to pry, isn't one to read what has nothing to do with him--but he does inadvertently catch some of the wording elegantly penned as he places the paper back into its envelope.
...my brother, your warmth has left us without. Left my bed cold, left my heart frigid.
---
No, it's not about the overflow tank.
Rather, Wriothesley calls Lyney to his office about the letters--not about the contents, which have sat themselves awkwardly in the back of his mind since his slip-up, but rather in making sure that everything got to him in one piece. The pipeline of prison mail is one that often leaves inmates frustrated, embarrassed. Lyney seems at higher risk in his mind, more prone to acting out if anything should interfere with his only current connection to his family, susceptible to the stresses of corresponding in incarceration. Hence his earlier sense of obligation: see to it that Lyney gets all the letters he's entitled to, all in complete form. For the sake of his wellbeing.
He straightens his tie as Lyney sits before him. ]
It's not about that. [ ...He doesn't mean to, but it's hard not to think of the dash of Lynette's letter--possibly Freminet's, but he doubts it on handwriting alone--caught unintentionally. "Left my bed cold"? There are only so many ways to interpret that. ] I entrusted a guard with your mail earlier. Did it find you well?
[ All that mattered was the main was sent. Selfishly, he wants letters back but he’s not fully sure how the systems work. Wriothesley and him only discussed coupons for outbound mail.
Each letter had been stuffed under his bed, Lynette’s under his pillow.
Alone again in the Duke’s office, little by little… the anger he had merely seeing Wriothesley had subsided. He’s neutral, as if a cat was beginning to trust someone doing well by him. Lyney doesn’t think too hard on it. ]
I did. Thank you. Those letters are a good motivator. I think my work today shows that. [ Was he finishing for validation? Who knows. ] When is the next time I can prepare letters? I’m not expecting you to break routine, just… let me know what the schedule is so I can ensure you’re paid.
[ Lyney didn't talk to Wriothesley about anything further. No talks of Father. Of Lynette. Of what past Lyney's tried to keep moving on from. It was pleasant enough, but he guarded himself out of shame for how vulnerable and small he felt in Wriothesley's office.
Doubting Father... thinking of taking Lynette away from Fontaine – who was he? Why did he let that Duke plant seeds that will never grow? They shouldn't.
He works his usual shifts, stuck on maintenance until his left hand bruises at the knuckles. He's not keen on speaking with that nurse, so he abandons going there in favor of that damn boxing ring. Archon's know there's enough bandages there for brutes wanting to punch into things. Lyney's ignoring the more bulky guys waiting to get their hits in, focusing on going to the supply bin in the corner. Cheers from the ring, curses and awes all the same – it was like a show. With his bandages dangling at his fingers, he's on his tip-toes to see the commotion.
[ Wriothesley doesn't spend as much time in the ring these days, but ultimatey, there's no taking the fight out of him. A challenge from a particularly enthusiastic inmate is all it takes, and it's on. Maybe he needs to blow off steam more than he knows.
To be honest, the whole thing goes on longer than he anticipates. There are a few close calls, a few outright missteps that send the crowd nearly spilling over itself, but in the end, he edges his opponent out. Dull pain pulses at his right cheekbone as he lends him a hand, heaving him up off the floor with a short tug and a grin shared between the two of them. He really ought to do this more often--not just out of the necessity that boxing represents to him, but because the satisfaction of a good fight is in its own league, leaves him airy and light-footed as he exits the ring to make way for the next competitors.
...Leaves him sweaty, too. He unknots his tie and pulls his shirt over his head in a fluid motion, wiping at his face and hair as he makes his way through the buzzing crowd. The whoops and cheers and claps on the back tell him he was the popular bet. Coupons move hands, the announcer blares overhead--and he nearly walks into somebody at the edge of all the chaos. ]
Ah. [ Lyney. He hasn't seen him since their talk the other day. That's...he'll put that out of his mind, for the moment. He's still riding the high of the match, and offers a quirk of a smile because of it. ] Hope you weren't betting on the other guy.
[ He was the popular bet, not because of his status but because of skill. Before becoming the Duke, Wriothesley had to scrap, just like everyone else. Lyney would have bet against him on spite if he made it in time... but alas, it saves him some coupons. Lyney holds tight to his bandages as Wriothesley secures his victory, but the crowd doesn't seem to circle the Duke for more than a few easy pats on the back.
Dispersing crowds land Lyney right in Wriothesley's path – where he looks up to a man quite... different than he was presented.
He's in his element and it shows. He commands the attention and respect, but Lyney's eyes linger for only a second. ...Why? ]
Ahhh, not the usual things I like to bet on. [ There's an awkward retort as he clears his throat a little. ] He got a few hits in, yeah? Off to see your nurse?
[ How else can he deal with confusion flushing through him? The same as he would in the overworld – he swallows it down and keeps that masquerade tight to his performance. It's taken years to perfect it, a confidence that was one part a wolf and one part a magician... the sums of his parts, sly and cunning when need be. Protective. Fierce.
It was a moment of weakness... wasn't it? He's lonely, without his beloved and ...
Wriothesley smiled more in a short moment than he had in months. Maybe Lyney views that as a win too.
And securing another win feels like something lingering in the air. A challenge... something that they both want to selfishly have whether they want to admit it or not.
Wriothesley wins with his invitation accepted. Lyney wins with a contraband deck of cards provided, albeit... not in the pristine condition he is use to.
Seated on the floor of the coffee table, looking at the cards laid splayed out between him and Wriothesley – a few idle yawns indicate how hard he had worked and how late it was for them. The invitation, despite such circumstances, was still met with a challenge.
Of course, when Lyney thumbs at his cards, there's a disapproving huff. ]
These are ancient. The edges are peeling off. Truly, how can anyone even enjoy the feeling of the cards when they're in this state?
[ He absolutely called it. The kid was the one who brought the deck, and Wriothesley will take his Vision right up to Celestia on his next trip to deliver Lyney's mail if this thing wasn't stacked. Or the kid counts cards, or something. Or the wear and tear works in his favor--that's it, isn't it? Wriothesley shoots him a look from where he sits, one that says he clearly hates losing. At least, he hates losing this many times in a row. To a 19 year old. Who has the gumption to complain about a deck of cards he shouldn't even have in Meropide. ]
I'd offer a fresh deck in exchange for coupons, [ One where the four of spades doesn't OBVIOUSLY have a tear at the corner ] but I don't have the feeling that would remedy your cheating ways.
Or you could go to the intake area and get mine. [ They're pristine – taken care of just as much as his hat, his garters, his cape. It was as part of his routine as anything else!
It wasn't his fault that these cards just don't feel good to even play against.
The accusation comes fast and Lyney scoffs – gasping out with a hand pressed to his chest. He looks absolutely offended. ] Me? Cheating?! It's not my fault I have more skills in cards than you.
[ It's easy to piece together, but it's Wriothesley's determination to best him that reads far easier. Lyney notes the way his jaw tightens, his eyes divert and flick up to him. ...He gets lost every so often but he can see the tells. ]
[ The coupons were a little more difficult this time around. It takes an extra week for him to accrue the coupons and tip for Wriothesley (always important) to send the bulk of his letters. The pipes had been in the best order they had been in years, Lyney hears, all because of his efforts. The bruises on his arms or the soft scratches on his thighs from squeezing in there was worth it, wasn't it?
With the lull of work, he takes to other means. Simple magic tricks, making this appear and disappear... guessing numbers... they were all based on anticipation and risk. Lyney knows the truth: magic and gambling relies on reading people.
So, as he had more often as of late, he ends up at the Duke's office. Ten letters for Lynette, five for Freminet, one for Father. Bunched in his hands and set carefully in front of Wriothesley, the coupons were laid shortly after.
It's ... an awkward subject, but their agreement was forged weeks ago and Lyney tends to hold Wriothesley responsible for it. Sure, he can change the rules any time he wishes but he didn't care. He'd follow them, break them, and get his way any means possible when it came to Lynette.
...And he knows he has to respond to Father. Plead for forgiveness in ways that weren't begging. She didn't like weakness, after all. It was a pledge, one forged of fear – but that loyalty... it was still blind. ]
This should be all. Less than last time, I think, but the coupons are there. [ Lyney almost sounds nervous. Different than the boy laughing and prodding old cards to his chin to hide his own amusement. ] How quickly will these ones leave?
[ It stands out to him before the letters can even hit his desk.
It's been a while since the last batch he sent along, and for that, Wriothesley thinks Lyney should be full to the brim with bright hopeful energy for further communication with his siblings. He looks up from the last of his work, trains his eyes on the boy, searches for the grin in waiting or the cocky remark tucked just behind his tongue. What he finds instead is stony. Guarded.
Even in the evening, even cut off from the skies overhead entirely, it's...too early for this. Lyney is off. That much is apparent. He sets aside his feather pen, leans back in his seat to size him up again. He's not imagining things. That much he can say. ]
I'll be meeting with an associate in the overworld tommorrow, so these will come along with me. Rest assured.
[ But he gets the sense that Lyney won't. Wriothesley would like to think life in the Fortress has been a healthy thing for Lyney, a world where fair is fair and his efforts are rewarded in kind. A world where he can make his way on his own terms. But something has brought him backward, has paled the glow of his recent happiness. And that bothers Wriothesley more than he'd like to admit. A trend he's realizing is only too common with Lyney, and not getting any better with time.
For a moment, he hesitates. Now would be a good time to distance himself a little--to draw lines where they should already have been boldly painted--but what should be with Lyney seldom seems to be what is, and now is no exception. ]
[ He's not sure how bad his pokerface is right now. He's debated for weeks writing the letters to Lynette – making sure they're filled with sweet lies that don't make her hurt and long for him more. Poor Lyney, wearing his loneliness deep in his heart – fluffing her up with things that mask an illusion that things are going to be okay.
They have to be.
The letter he penned to Father was more. It took time. He can't defend himself but he can't betray her logic. Lyney went against her wishes, period. What awaits him when he gets home...? He can only try to lessen that pain for his siblings.
Wriothesley is leaving tomorrow – he wished it would be sooner, today at least but... Would Wriothesley deliver these to Lynette personally now? He's a little unsure if the thought was worrying or reassuring.
By the time that question hits, Lyney snaps out of his gaze. A smile, quick like a flick of his wrist flashes over his face. ]
Of course. Your not charging me extra for losing our little game and you're prompt enough with delivery. Everything is fine.
[ Lynette finds her favorite cafe really has taken inspiration from Liyue in recent months. The impending events she hears about have culinary chefs going into a fits. The poor girl, sensitive as she was to smells and tastes, can't say she is fan. They don't consider the tongue, how each tastebud could be more sensitive for the last.
The umbrella shade keeps the sun from radiating too hard on her... but she's been here for hours. Sipping a third glass of tea, lost in a small book that provided a perfect cover. It's Observation Duty today, watching merchants deliver to the cafe and ensuring no extra crates were being smuggled in. Father was not happy with recent food qualities for the House of the Hearth, rumor that the quality of ingredients were being sacrificed and cut somewhere.
She'll take these missions over the ones that send her far away from Fontaine, away from her home. Those... have been happening more often.
But, an extra crate being smuggled in means despite the quality of food declining... something else would be added to deliveries. Suspicions, she hopes, were unfounded.
Her tail thumps against the side of her chair, a pencil circling page numbers she wishes to show Lyney when he comes out. This book was one he recommended her – The Windmill Warrior, a long story about a noble in Mondstadt defending her land from the horrors of impending beasts and monsters. Completely fantastical, but it was nice to get away, wasn't it?
The server returns to Lynette with three small pastries, all lacking that paste she requested. The girl has no shame taking a huge bite and munching, idle with her gaze flicking from delivery in the distance to the back of the cafe and her book. ]
Knowing how to run Meropide means knowing when to be there and when to go away. Right now, Wriothesley needs the latter. It will be fine: he does this from time to time, and with no murmurs of an uprising or any other pending emergency at hand, he's free to come and go as he pleases. He lets Sigewinne know he'll be taking lunch in the overworld ("Aww, thank goodness! It'll improve your color!"--what that means to a melusine is likely different from what it means to a human, he muses), and departs, deciding he'll stop by a cafe Clorinde recommended to him last they spoke.
He gets out enough--he has to, for the sake of his business ties--but sunlight on his face and the openness of a free world always do take some adjusting to, at first.
The stroll there is easier than anticipated. He recalls her concise directions, probably still has the little map she drew stowed away in his desk somewhere. He takes it slow, leisurely. Watches families pass, sees lovers arm in arm. Set against the upheaval in his heart, it's all a bit comical in its idyllic way. Maybe the gods are having a laugh at his expense.
Scratch that. The gods are absolutely having a laugh at his expense.
He reaches the cafe, and who else but her would be sat there in the shade of an umbrella? He thinks of walking past her--maybe offering a wave if she looks up from her book and sees him--but quickly puts that idea to rest. If the gods are having their fun with him...maybe it's better to laugh with them. To go with the tides. Be pulled along.
(Wasn't a great idea last time, he thinks involuntarily.)
He strides over to where Lynette is sat, not really knowing if this is against his better judgment or not. It's something, alright. Maybe a lesson in discovering his own cafes as opposed to taking recommendations. ]
[ Eight days pass and not a word is spoke between them. It's ... quiet, the pipes and rattle of steps distant and hollow keeps him up at night. He's angry, upset, and lonely. Three combinations to a cocktail that turns the boy into a incendiary grenade ready to explode.
At first, working more didn't get his mind off the Duke. The lingering taste, the way his body felt pressed in his, and that betrayal of trust – ugh. Why is he so bothered by this? It's one of the first times... he's actively wanted something. Out of reach, unable to pull from his magic hat. Lynette's letters grow longer and he writes her with confessions at first. Throwing those out shortly after in favor of the same long-lasting want for her.
It's fine.
He's just... lonely, that's why this stings so much. Right?
So. Lyney has to find a way to channel his feelings. So be it, he does it in a way that turns the pretty boy into a target. Lyney somehow convinces someone to work with him. They both bet coupons against Lyney but still – he tries. He talks his way into the ring, gives it his all but it's not enough. Each punch looks like a wet noodle flopping poorly with so-so form. Lyney works best with props, with proficiency in weapons but he's too ambitious and his strikes don't hit nearly as hard as they should.
Speed can't keep his back from the ropes and his head from hitting the mat. It'll still pay for a handful of letters.
The first day wasn't noticeable, a bruise under his eye barely blossomed, but the second day sends him to Sigewinne.
No tight-fitting clothes for four days! Let your body breathe, you're too tiny to stop growing.
That's... not how human works but Lyney doesn't argue. He isn't exactly most comfortable chatting with Sigewinne, but he does as he mentioned: he leaves an autograph as thanks which the nurse hangs up promptly after she bandages his ribs up.
The boy dangles his shirt between his fingers, limp as he carefully starts the trek back to his room, bare chest exposed and white bandages weaved up over his shoulder. He looks tired but... it's fine. Another week down. Another week closer to leaving. ]
[ He's just on his way to Sigewinne's office as he sees the boy departing.
Put kindly, Lyney looks like hell. Tired eyes with a bruise beneath to match. Bandages at his ribs and over his shoulder. More bruises just beginning to tinge his pale skin, blue-red smears in indistinct shapes. At first, Wriothesley fears the worst--that someone's done this to him, that he's finally been roughed up by another inmate punching well beneath their weight--but if a fight had taken place, one outside the ring, his guards would have let him know by now.
A picture comes together in his mind, and with it, a surge of quiet white anger.
Sigewinne's office forgotten, he steps to the boy, nearly taking his good shoulder in his hand before thinking better of it. There are others around, and though he trusts that Lyney hasn't said anything to anyone, he still finds himself wondering what might happen if the truth of their last encounter gets out. Touching him in public seems a betrayal of the secret, a gesture from which someone will pluck the secret. And that, in itself, fuels the irritation already in place. ]
Lyney.
[ He waits until he turns around, then gestures shortly. ]
Come with me.
[ It's all he can do not to question him here and now, ask him what the hell he was thinking entering the ring. But he holds back, turns on his heel, and makes for his office. They'll talk there. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
fathoms below, tides call above [PART ONE]
"Lyney. He ensured I was safe. In his own way."
"In his own way?! He never should have touched you!"
"I do not think he is our enemy. Enter Logic Mode like me, you'll see."
"Do not. Lynette, you know what Father said!"
"I know. However, you saw what he did during all of this. He was like us."
"Like us?"
"He did things in the way he had to. Can you blame him, brother?"
He could. Time and time again – that smug grin and calm eyes... the ones that felt lonely and tired. Lyney will never forget the look on his face before that darling nurse shot him.
So, now... Lyney keeps an eye out for her as he walks down the hallways of the elevators leading to the Duke's headquarters. Meropide stunk like saltwater and metal, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Directed inside, he feels a sense of control stripped away as the Duke summons his guest in. Lynette insisted he make amends, to thank him for helping when he could. It wasn't needed, in his opinion. Why was he not thanking Lady Navia? Or Monsieur Neuvillette? Or Lady Furina herself? He's stuck with someone who he'd kill if it came down to it, challenged by his own masculinity and inability to keep his family safe.
Pah. Don't lose that mask... The giant doors shut behind him and the neatly wrapped package was gripped tighter in his arms. Lynette's idea was never one he'd question but... boy, did he hate it. Only she and Father could make him do something like this. Something that makes him feel small.
All Lyney does is look up to the staircase. ]
no subject
Wriothesley doesn't mind--it is, like most days, a quiet day within Meropide--but he can't help lifting an eyebrow upon learning who his visitor is. The Fatui kid. Lyney. Is he here to finish what he started? Hard to picture him bringing along a basket of confectionary after what transpired between the two of them. But Wriothesley calls him in regardless, hears the doors to his office open and close one floor below.
Best not keep him waiting, he supposes.
He signs off on one last intake paper, shuffles the small pile collected upon his desk, and gets to his feet. At least Lyney is here purely in the context of visitation; he'd prefer not to have the kid in his care again as an inmate. He makes his way down the stairs leisurely, stopping midway. Takes in the sight of him. It's not rare, exactly, but he never does quite get used to the sight of youth like that in a place like the Fortress.
He crosses his arms. ]
I don't have her this time, if that's what you're here for.
no subject
She's safe at home, waiting for me. [ He says calmly, stepping inward with that box to his chest. ] She sends her regards and I'm a mere delivery boy, it seems. Here. From her.
[ He lifts it up just a little, arms extended far. ]
There's nothing nefarious in here, you can even smell her perfume on it.
[ The man didn't deserve to smell her delicate scent, but he bites his tongue. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
when there's smoke, there's a fire [PART TWO]
It took Lyney two days to find her, stowed away in the mountains and it took two minutes for the cabin to burn to the ground and leave an enemy of the Fatui crawling out with his face melting off. Someone who wronged Father and the kindness she showed... they survive, but barely.
Months pass and soon, Lyney stands trial in an arson and attempted murder.
The trial was long, arduous and with the right evidence – he is cleared of one charge, but not the other. The arson had ruined a quarter mile of sacred forest, legally protected and thus...
Six months, minimum.
That is what was deemed appropriate.
The clang of metal pipes and smell of saltwater brings him back to the Fortress. Back to the Duke's graces. It takes a long time to get Lyney to talk, but when he does... he doesn't shut up. ]
Here. Two stacks this week.
[ Of envelopes, letters sent to his siblings. 14 for Lynette, 6 for Freminet. One for Father. ]
You're sure they're not going to be slow in delivery?
no subject
[ And with that in mind, he really ought to reiterate that Lyney can bring these to the mail room's drop box. But he has the feeling the instructions will fall on deaf ears: Lyney likely doesn't want his mail seen to by a faceless facet of Meropide's system and its unfamiliar staff of sorters, but by someone he can actually put a name to. He can have that. For the right amount of coupons.
Wriothesley sighs.
Forget the coupons for now--they shouldn't even be having this exchange, not after that meeting so many months back. Honestly. What happened to steering clear of here? Keeping his affairs away from this place? Wriothesley isn't one to dwell on the details--either you're here or you're not, and if you are, then get to work--but he's found himself inexplicably peeved by Lyney's return to the Fortress. He had first suspected this might be Arlecchino's doing again, that Lyney might not have had a choice in the matter, but a copy of the case file provided to him by Neuvillette suggests that's not remotely the situation at hand. Lyney is here on account of his own decisions. Bottom line. And Wriothesley isn't sure he likes that any better than he likes the dashed prospect of the Harbinger sending him this way. ]
no subject
When Lyney shuts his eyes, he can remember the husk of a man crawling outwards of the fires he set, how even then… he reached for them. For her.
He didn’t want to do it, but he made a promise and that was its weight in gold. Untrustworthy as he was with his loyalty, he doesn’t turn back on that.
So, he grips the stacks of letters and slides them further across Wriothesley’s desk. ]
Please.
[ No snark, no amount of anything cocky — just… a plea. ]
I ask for nothing else than the mail to be delivered with care. I would say it was in your duties to ensure someone as dangerous as me isn’t sending suspicious letters. Read them, I don’t care, Your Grace.
[ He is wounded, a cat that is holding his pain inside and only letting a few flicks of annoyance show. Never complaining, never asking for more — just this once. ]
I’ll take double shifts to make up for our transactions every week.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
caught up on a lotus [PART THREE]
It's not a bad book, no, but at some point the lines begin to blur. He reads a paragraph three times before realizing he's taken nothing from it. He might just be tired of reading, a consequence of running numbers most of the day. He's about to start in on a fourth attempt when a knock sounds at his office door. It's just as well. ]
Come in.
no subject
He mains the coupons he owes back easily.
...But that tip.
...He would be a prideful thing first, a hardworker second. Of course, it comes to a head when the job he needs to accomplish this sends him into the pipes. Lyney's out of his usual attire – oil and dirt on his bare forearms and a tight shirt clinging to him like a second skin when he's done. Repairing a connector inside one of the central hub pipes wasn't easy, but he doesn't complain.
Only one small enough to fit inside, of course.
His slacks droop at his hips and it was like a different boy when Lyney walks in – a product of this Fortress for the first time since sentencing. Less of being dolled up, presentable, and seen...
Lyney could blend in at this rate now that workers were retiring for the night.
When he finds Wriothesley, he offers his hand out. A nice bundle of coupons tied with a bow. ]
Hope I'm not disturbing you, but want to make sure to get this to you.
no subject
He looks the boy over, then takes the coupons from him. He's at the point where he can more or less eyeball these things. Either it's the right amount, or Lyney has pulled off a hell of a trick. ]
I'm glad you did. Guess I'm headed to the surface tomorrow.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
and all those words turn to sand [PART FOUR]
But for Lyney? It was noted to return to the Duke of anything suspicious was to arise.
Freminet’s letters were fine, if not a little lonely. He wants to show his new diving spot when Lyney returns to him most of all.
Lynette’s are mostly untouched except for a letter with a note on top: “inappropriate” it reads.
Lyney,
The hours feel like years and it brings me back to nights under a starless sky. Where the steam from the pipes would black out any twinkles…
I don’t like it.
However, you are already nearing a month or so. Those hours are inconsequential to you returning to me. You promised you always would and I know not to disbelieve you.
I am returning to work this week for Father. They are unhappy that Freminet is pulling your workload for mundane matters. Your usual day to days.
She scolded him enough to bring tears and I don’t know how to feel. How do you do this? Oh, my brother, your warmth has left us without. Left my bed cold, left my heart frigid.
I will do everything I can to provide. To stay strong when you have done so many times before. My promise to you, pinky promise like we made as children.
… The man went to a care facility today. He is trying to recuperate his throat. To give some Interview. I don’t like it.
The Gardes are ensuring he does not have total freedom but he has more than you.
It’s not fair.
Return to me.
Love, Lynette
The weight of that letter folds in two papers but the other marked one… only a few choice words.
“Do not stray from me again, lamb. -A”
Lyney is in his bunk, fiddling with the tension of the cotton sheets and trying his best to make such a thing comfortable. He really was having issues sleeping, but he feels cold beyond anything. The same as Lynette.
He finishes up and gets called — a demand from a subordinate that the Duke is requesting him for an update on some task he’s been focused on this week.
Technically true, but there’s something hanging in the air that Lyney isn’t picking up on. Secrets begging to be revealed, threats that don’t sit well.
Lyney knocks a sing-song way before entering. Eyes canvassing over the room before making the trek to that familiar desk. ]
You called? I told the guy it’s not able to be worked on until the water subsides in the overflow tank. So if it’s about that…
no subject
That being said, there's only so much he can do with the systems in place. The letters back to him still have to go through the mail room for the usual checks--contraband, and the like--before they make it to Wriothesley's desk. And so they're opened by the time they're in Wriothesley's hands.
He's just about due for a meeting when the letters are given to him by a guard, and so he can't have the contents sent along immediately. He means to stow them temporarily in one of his desk drawers until he can have them given to their intended recipient. Which is when it happens.
One of the envelopes--marked "inappropriate"; a designation he'll really have to have the mail room do away with entirely, being that 'inappropriate' does not equal 'dangerous' or 'anyone else's damned business'--is stuffed carelessly, and the contents spill out onto his desk. Wriothesley isn't one to pry, isn't one to read what has nothing to do with him--but he does inadvertently catch some of the wording elegantly penned as he places the paper back into its envelope.
...my brother, your warmth has left us without. Left my bed cold, left my heart frigid.
No, it's not about the overflow tank.
Rather, Wriothesley calls Lyney to his office about the letters--not about the contents, which have sat themselves awkwardly in the back of his mind since his slip-up, but rather in making sure that everything got to him in one piece. The pipeline of prison mail is one that often leaves inmates frustrated, embarrassed. Lyney seems at higher risk in his mind, more prone to acting out if anything should interfere with his only current connection to his family, susceptible to the stresses of corresponding in incarceration. Hence his earlier sense of obligation: see to it that Lyney gets all the letters he's entitled to, all in complete form. For the sake of his wellbeing.
He straightens his tie as Lyney sits before him. ]
It's not about that. [ ...He doesn't mean to, but it's hard not to think of the dash of Lynette's letter--possibly Freminet's, but he doubts it on handwriting alone--caught unintentionally. "Left my bed cold"? There are only so many ways to interpret that. ] I entrusted a guard with your mail earlier. Did it find you well?
no subject
Each letter had been stuffed under his bed, Lynette’s under his pillow.
Alone again in the Duke’s office, little by little… the anger he had merely seeing Wriothesley had subsided. He’s neutral, as if a cat was beginning to trust someone doing well by him. Lyney doesn’t think too hard on it. ]
I did. Thank you. Those letters are a good motivator. I think my work today shows that. [ Was he finishing for validation? Who knows. ] When is the next time I can prepare letters? I’m not expecting you to break routine, just… let me know what the schedule is so I can ensure you’re paid.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
all it took was a hook and you lured me in [PART FIVE]
Doubting Father... thinking of taking Lynette away from Fontaine – who was he? Why did he let that Duke plant seeds that will never grow? They shouldn't.
He works his usual shifts, stuck on maintenance until his left hand bruises at the knuckles. He's not keen on speaking with that nurse, so he abandons going there in favor of that damn boxing ring. Archon's know there's enough bandages there for brutes wanting to punch into things. Lyney's ignoring the more bulky guys waiting to get their hits in, focusing on going to the supply bin in the corner. Cheers from the ring, curses and awes all the same – it was like a show. With his bandages dangling at his fingers, he's on his tip-toes to see the commotion.
...And then, of course, he sees it.
That damn Duke. ]
no subject
To be honest, the whole thing goes on longer than he anticipates. There are a few close calls, a few outright missteps that send the crowd nearly spilling over itself, but in the end, he edges his opponent out. Dull pain pulses at his right cheekbone as he lends him a hand, heaving him up off the floor with a short tug and a grin shared between the two of them. He really ought to do this more often--not just out of the necessity that boxing represents to him, but because the satisfaction of a good fight is in its own league, leaves him airy and light-footed as he exits the ring to make way for the next competitors.
...Leaves him sweaty, too. He unknots his tie and pulls his shirt over his head in a fluid motion, wiping at his face and hair as he makes his way through the buzzing crowd. The whoops and cheers and claps on the back tell him he was the popular bet. Coupons move hands, the announcer blares overhead--and he nearly walks into somebody at the edge of all the chaos. ]
Ah. [ Lyney. He hasn't seen him since their talk the other day. That's...he'll put that out of his mind, for the moment. He's still riding the high of the match, and offers a quirk of a smile because of it. ] Hope you weren't betting on the other guy.
no subject
Dispersing crowds land Lyney right in Wriothesley's path – where he looks up to a man quite... different than he was presented.
He's in his element and it shows. He commands the attention and respect, but Lyney's eyes linger for only a second. ...Why? ]
Ahhh, not the usual things I like to bet on. [ There's an awkward retort as he clears his throat a little. ] He got a few hits in, yeah? Off to see your nurse?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
and it all comes tumbling down [PART SIX]
It was a moment of weakness... wasn't it? He's lonely, without his beloved and ...
Wriothesley smiled more in a short moment than he had in months. Maybe Lyney views that as a win too.
And securing another win feels like something lingering in the air. A challenge... something that they both want to selfishly have whether they want to admit it or not.
Wriothesley wins with his invitation accepted.
Lyney wins with a contraband deck of cards provided, albeit... not in the pristine condition he is use to.
Seated on the floor of the coffee table, looking at the cards laid splayed out between him and Wriothesley – a few idle yawns indicate how hard he had worked and how late it was for them. The invitation, despite such circumstances, was still met with a challenge.
Of course, when Lyney thumbs at his cards, there's a disapproving huff. ]
These are ancient. The edges are peeling off. Truly, how can anyone even enjoy the feeling of the cards when they're in this state?
no subject
I'd offer a fresh deck in exchange for coupons, [ One where the four of spades doesn't OBVIOUSLY have a tear at the corner ] but I don't have the feeling that would remedy your cheating ways.
no subject
It wasn't his fault that these cards just don't feel good to even play against.
The accusation comes fast and Lyney scoffs – gasping out with a hand pressed to his chest. He looks absolutely offended. ] Me? Cheating?! It's not my fault I have more skills in cards than you.
[ It's easy to piece together, but it's Wriothesley's determination to best him that reads far easier. Lyney notes the way his jaw tightens, his eyes divert and flick up to him. ...He gets lost every so often but he can see the tells. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
don't take the magic out of that gaze [PART SEVEN]
With the lull of work, he takes to other means. Simple magic tricks, making this appear and disappear... guessing numbers... they were all based on anticipation and risk. Lyney knows the truth: magic and gambling relies on reading people.
So, as he had more often as of late, he ends up at the Duke's office. Ten letters for Lynette, five for Freminet, one for Father. Bunched in his hands and set carefully in front of Wriothesley, the coupons were laid shortly after.
It's ... an awkward subject, but their agreement was forged weeks ago and Lyney tends to hold Wriothesley responsible for it. Sure, he can change the rules any time he wishes but he didn't care. He'd follow them, break them, and get his way any means possible when it came to Lynette.
...And he knows he has to respond to Father. Plead for forgiveness in ways that weren't begging. She didn't like weakness, after all. It was a pledge, one forged of fear – but that loyalty... it was still blind. ]
This should be all. Less than last time, I think, but the coupons are there. [ Lyney almost sounds nervous. Different than the boy laughing and prodding old cards to his chin to hide his own amusement. ] How quickly will these ones leave?
no subject
It's been a while since the last batch he sent along, and for that, Wriothesley thinks Lyney should be full to the brim with bright hopeful energy for further communication with his siblings. He looks up from the last of his work, trains his eyes on the boy, searches for the grin in waiting or the cocky remark tucked just behind his tongue. What he finds instead is stony. Guarded.
Even in the evening, even cut off from the skies overhead entirely, it's...too early for this. Lyney is off. That much is apparent. He sets aside his feather pen, leans back in his seat to size him up again. He's not imagining things. That much he can say. ]
I'll be meeting with an associate in the overworld tommorrow, so these will come along with me. Rest assured.
[ But he gets the sense that Lyney won't. Wriothesley would like to think life in the Fortress has been a healthy thing for Lyney, a world where fair is fair and his efforts are rewarded in kind. A world where he can make his way on his own terms. But something has brought him backward, has paled the glow of his recent happiness. And that bothers Wriothesley more than he'd like to admit. A trend he's realizing is only too common with Lyney, and not getting any better with time.
For a moment, he hesitates. Now would be a good time to distance himself a little--to draw lines where they should already have been boldly painted--but what should be with Lyney seldom seems to be what is, and now is no exception. ]
...Everything alright?
no subject
They have to be.
The letter he penned to Father was more. It took time. He can't defend himself but he can't betray her logic. Lyney went against her wishes, period. What awaits him when he gets home...? He can only try to lessen that pain for his siblings.
Wriothesley is leaving tomorrow – he wished it would be sooner, today at least but... Would Wriothesley deliver these to Lynette personally now? He's a little unsure if the thought was worrying or reassuring.
By the time that question hits, Lyney snaps out of his gaze. A smile, quick like a flick of his wrist flashes over his face. ]
Of course. Your not charging me extra for losing our little game and you're prompt enough with delivery. Everything is fine.
[ Such a simple lie. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
the fire that can't keep us warm [PART EIGHT]
[ Lynette finds her favorite cafe really has taken inspiration from Liyue in recent months. The impending events she hears about have culinary chefs going into a fits. The poor girl, sensitive as she was to smells and tastes, can't say she is fan. They don't consider the tongue, how each tastebud could be more sensitive for the last.
The umbrella shade keeps the sun from radiating too hard on her... but she's been here for hours. Sipping a third glass of tea, lost in a small book that provided a perfect cover. It's Observation Duty today, watching merchants deliver to the cafe and ensuring no extra crates were being smuggled in. Father was not happy with recent food qualities for the House of the Hearth, rumor that the quality of ingredients were being sacrificed and cut somewhere.
She'll take these missions over the ones that send her far away from Fontaine, away from her home. Those... have been happening more often.
But, an extra crate being smuggled in means despite the quality of food declining... something else would be added to deliveries. Suspicions, she hopes, were unfounded.
Her tail thumps against the side of her chair, a pencil circling page numbers she wishes to show Lyney when he comes out. This book was one he recommended her – The Windmill Warrior, a long story about a noble in Mondstadt defending her land from the horrors of impending beasts and monsters. Completely fantastical, but it was nice to get away, wasn't it?
The server returns to Lynette with three small pastries, all lacking that paste she requested. The girl has no shame taking a huge bite and munching, idle with her gaze flicking from delivery in the distance to the back of the cafe and her book. ]
no subject
Knowing how to run Meropide means knowing when to be there and when to go away. Right now, Wriothesley needs the latter. It will be fine: he does this from time to time, and with no murmurs of an uprising or any other pending emergency at hand, he's free to come and go as he pleases. He lets Sigewinne know he'll be taking lunch in the overworld ("Aww, thank goodness! It'll improve your color!"--what that means to a melusine is likely different from what it means to a human, he muses), and departs, deciding he'll stop by a cafe Clorinde recommended to him last they spoke.
He gets out enough--he has to, for the sake of his business ties--but sunlight on his face and the openness of a free world always do take some adjusting to, at first.
The stroll there is easier than anticipated. He recalls her concise directions, probably still has the little map she drew stowed away in his desk somewhere. He takes it slow, leisurely. Watches families pass, sees lovers arm in arm. Set against the upheaval in his heart, it's all a bit comical in its idyllic way. Maybe the gods are having a laugh at his expense.
Scratch that. The gods are absolutely having a laugh at his expense.
He reaches the cafe, and who else but her would be sat there in the shade of an umbrella? He thinks of walking past her--maybe offering a wave if she looks up from her book and sees him--but quickly puts that idea to rest. If the gods are having their fun with him...maybe it's better to laugh with them. To go with the tides. Be pulled along.
(Wasn't a great idea last time, he thinks involuntarily.)
He strides over to where Lynette is sat, not really knowing if this is against his better judgment or not. It's something, alright. Maybe a lesson in discovering his own cafes as opposed to taking recommendations. ]
Do you mind if I sit with you? Miss Lynette.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
the deepest bruise is under the surface [PART NINE]
At first, working more didn't get his mind off the Duke. The lingering taste, the way his body felt pressed in his, and that betrayal of trust – ugh. Why is he so bothered by this? It's one of the first times... he's actively wanted something. Out of reach, unable to pull from his magic hat. Lynette's letters grow longer and he writes her with confessions at first. Throwing those out shortly after in favor of the same long-lasting want for her.
It's fine.
He's just... lonely, that's why this stings so much. Right?
So. Lyney has to find a way to channel his feelings. So be it, he does it in a way that turns the pretty boy into a target. Lyney somehow convinces someone to work with him. They both bet coupons against Lyney but still – he tries. He talks his way into the ring, gives it his all but it's not enough. Each punch looks like a wet noodle flopping poorly with so-so form. Lyney works best with props, with proficiency in weapons but he's too ambitious and his strikes don't hit nearly as hard as they should.
Speed can't keep his back from the ropes and his head from hitting the mat. It'll still pay for a handful of letters.
The first day wasn't noticeable, a bruise under his eye barely blossomed, but the second day sends him to Sigewinne.
No tight-fitting clothes for four days! Let your body breathe, you're too tiny to stop growing.
That's... not how human works but Lyney doesn't argue. He isn't exactly most comfortable chatting with Sigewinne, but he does as he mentioned: he leaves an autograph as thanks which the nurse hangs up promptly after she bandages his ribs up.
The boy dangles his shirt between his fingers, limp as he carefully starts the trek back to his room, bare chest exposed and white bandages weaved up over his shoulder. He looks tired but... it's fine. Another week down. Another week closer to leaving. ]
no subject
Put kindly, Lyney looks like hell. Tired eyes with a bruise beneath to match. Bandages at his ribs and over his shoulder. More bruises just beginning to tinge his pale skin, blue-red smears in indistinct shapes. At first, Wriothesley fears the worst--that someone's done this to him, that he's finally been roughed up by another inmate punching well beneath their weight--but if a fight had taken place, one outside the ring, his guards would have let him know by now.
A picture comes together in his mind, and with it, a surge of quiet white anger.
Sigewinne's office forgotten, he steps to the boy, nearly taking his good shoulder in his hand before thinking better of it. There are others around, and though he trusts that Lyney hasn't said anything to anyone, he still finds himself wondering what might happen if the truth of their last encounter gets out. Touching him in public seems a betrayal of the secret, a gesture from which someone will pluck the secret. And that, in itself, fuels the irritation already in place. ]
Lyney.
[ He waits until he turns around, then gestures shortly. ]
Come with me.
[ It's all he can do not to question him here and now, ask him what the hell he was thinking entering the ring. But he holds back, turns on his heel, and makes for his office. They'll talk there. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...