Archive of Our Own

The ice is the same as ever. Pure white marked with crisscrossing lines; some clean and crisp from the kiss of a sharp blade, others rough and uneven yet made with passion. Each one bears memories of first-times, returning joys, and hopeful dreams among many other things as the familiar scratch of skates against the ice fills whatever music and conversation do not.

If Neuvillette were to listen closely enough, he would be able to make out the sound of hushed cheers and excited murmurs, banners and plush toys alike held with bated breath beyond the bright lights that are focused on his every move—following every elegant turn and powerful jump as he paints upon his canvas and lays his soul bare. Another memory carved into ice everlasting.

The cold upon his skin and the phantom ache that reaches his bones mean little in comparison to the emotions in his heart. Not even his mind and all its traitorous calculations can take this away; Neuvillette knows this much even as hesitation holds him in its grip and fear urges him to step away. To leave. To stop this ridiculous chasing of a dream long since broken. Shattered across the ice never to be retrieved again.

Oh, how he yearns— Desire a flame within his heart despite it all. Flickering yet very much there.

“Neuvillette?” Wriothesley says, and only then does Neuvillette notice the way he’s holding Wriothesley’s hand; grip a little too tight, his wrist resting atop the barrier and the fabric of his sleeve growing wet as ice melts where it meets his skin. He has one foot in the rink, weight resting on the leg still planted on the rubber flooring in a way that he knows it shouldn’t be. Not if he wants to step onto the ice.

… But can he truly? Does he even deserve to do such a thing?

Just as Neuvillette remembers the high of it all, so does he remember the fall. The world had begun spinning long before he’d even stepped onto the ice; shadows that were supposed to have been forcefully banished through training and focus rising to the surface with a vengeance after weeks of lying in wait. And oh how those weeks had caused the thoughts to fester, growing worse with each crack in his form hastily patched in the rush to reach perfection in time for the competition ahead.

His body had been held together by tape and braces hidden from the world in layers of fabric; mind muddled by the painkillers he’d consumed to allow himself to focus on the task at hand. Fool’s gold holding his shattered form together in his desperation.

How foolish he had been to think it would hold… and oh how he had paid the price, coming undone at the most crucial moment of it all.

Every bit of it was crystal-clear in his mind from night after night of fighting the demons that had never let him go. Never ceased to remind him of how he’d failed.

The split second of wrongness before his world had come crashing down; the elegant lilting notes of his chosen song continuing even as a sickening crack resounded through the arena… It had taken much too long for his body and mind to process it all, adrenaline numbing his senses as he forced himself to rise on shaking legs and try to continue, to at least get to the end of his routine no matter how torturous it was. He had traded everything he could for the strength to make it through, uncaring of the way his body protested in the form of a blinding pain that threatened to pull him under. All to shine as bright as he can, even if this time could be his last.

Especially if it were to be his last.

Warm wetness had seeped through the fabric of the outfit he wore to taint it red, torn muscles had burned as they tried to do as he willed, and broken bone had cracked even further through the stress of it all. Everything told him to stop. To cease this stupidity. To give up.

But how could he when such an option had been forcefully taken away and ground to dust by years after years of conditioning? Countless years of being told to continue on no matter what, to hold the performance above even himself and most importantly to succeed at the end of it all had taught him otherwise. Engraved into his very being that nothing mattered if he were to give up. That to be human in such thoughts was a fatal weakness. After all, his body was merely an instrument. A tool to be used.

How could he? Even when he knew he shouldn’t have?

By the time he’d realised… it had been too late. The damage long done and telling in the way his dreams had laid shattered across the ice alongside his broken body.

Silence had fallen in a mix of horror and awe, but Neuvillette never noticed… or rather could not have found it in himself to care. Not with the way frustration had consumed his soul, their accompanying words carving their mark upon his heart. Disappointment. Failure. Nothing he could do was enough. Never would be enough. And now… his mistake had only proven them right.

The beating of his heart had been much too loud to hear the way the music had finally come to an end and marked his program’s conclusion; his mind spread thin from how he’d held himself together the best he could. The muscle memory built from hours after hours spent every day, every week, month, and year had been the one thing that had guided him through his bows with all the grace he could in such a state. Only for everything to all fall apart the moment the ice’s pristine white turned to black rubber beneath his feet, the reality of it all crashing back down upon him.

By the time Neuvillette had reached the gate, the faces of the staff rushing about had blurred into the darkness at the edges of his vision; their panicked voices like white noise in his mind, muffled and distant even as they rose in volume. And oh when had he found himself on one knee? Clutching his leg as if that would make the pain go away and tasting blood and bile in his mouth, he had forced himself to rise once more—

But he could not have. Not with the way the cracks had spread so far that nothing in the world could ever have held the pieces of him together.

And so he hadn’t.

The memory plays on, rewinding and overlapping in his vision the longer he continues to stare at the empty ice, ending in an all-consuming darkness that brings twisted relief.

Finally, he could rest.

His lungs strain for air even as he does his best to maintain his composure despite knowing that it is safe. That he is safe. That there is no one here save for Wriothesley and himself. No one here to witness his disgrace should he fall again. No one here to witness if he chooses to run.

The phantom ache that had been steadily spreading from the moment they’d left the house began to burn, shadows of the past threatening him as they usually do—“One more time and you’d be considered lucky you’re still standing, much less skating”, they hissed—but one time had become two, three, and then many more. For Neuvillette had been nothing but determined to prove them wrong. Prove himself wrong.

All for things to end just as they always do: with a body shattered impossibly more and a gaping hole in his heart where a dream used to lie, frustration flowing like poison through his veins and pain keeping him awake night after night.

How fleeting, dreams are. A single moment able to end a lifetime’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears spilt across the ice.

Neuvillette had fought. Fought so viciously that he’d torn himself apart in the midst of it to a point far beyond any hope of repair. It had taken everything to pull himself back from the brink… and then what?

What now? The thought had once haunted him because, for someone who’s only known the feeling of the ice beneath his blades and the chill of the rink for what may as well be his whole life… what then is he to do when all that makes him whole is taken away?

Many years have been spent since then, mending what never could be made perfect again. Rising only to fall further as the hastily tied threads of his being came undone with only the stars as witness to the tears that never spilt forth and cries kept locked within his chest as he simply continued on.

To rise and to fall. To break and be put back together again. In that, at least, he had found a twisted familiarity. And in that way, slowly but surely, Neuvillette had found his footing once more. Just as he had all those years ago when he’d first taken to the ice, he would now do again. Over and over for as many times as he needs. All for that one chance.

The chance to feel whole again. Alive.

Maybe in another time, further in the past, Neuvillette would have pushed away; taken his cane from where it rests against the barrier to make his way back to the locker room; remove his skates and put them to the side before leaving just as he knows he should. But perhaps this stubborn mind of his was at least good for something.

As if on cue, the feeling of a hand on his pulls Neuvillette back to the surface—to the present. And he almost fights against the hold, does fight, until he realises that it is Wriothesley’s hand that is covering his own, squeezing gently as he brings himself to the ice’s edge; so close that Neuvillette can feel the warmth from his beloved reaching out to him, accompanied by silent apology in the way a thumb rubs soothing circles across the back of his hand.

Anger, disappointment, pity— These are what he expects to follow. What usually does follow were it to have been anyone else.

Yet when Neuvillette finally looks up from the ice, he finds nothing but love in the gaze that greets him. Feels nothing but encouragement in the way Wriothesley leaves just enough space for him to take that final step; the rink suddenly zoned into just the space between them. And that, in some way, finally brings him back from the edge.

“May I?” Wriothesley asks with a tilt of his head, and Neuvillette tries his damnest to gather his mind as he nods. Because he truly does want this. And for that to happen…

Carefully, Neuvillette shifts his weight forward; though not yet bringing his other leg onto the ice.

“Focus on me,” Wriothesley urges wordlessly in the way he leans over to press a kiss to Neuvillette’s cheek; holds a hand out in offering when he feels Neuvillette follow as he straightens up, gloves removed and tucked away. And Neuvillette lets out a trembling breath as he turns his focus to the way Wriothesley’s hand closes tight around his but never pulls, fingers brushing away the last bits of melted frost still clinging to his skin before intertwining to mimic one of those crushing hugs Wriothesley loves to pull him into every so often.

Bit by bit, the crowd fades away to leave empty seats in their wake, the light spreading gently to brighten the rink in its totality. And Neuvillette sees.

In this rink, it’s just them. Here, there are no judges, no audience, no need to be perfect no matter how that voice within him continues to nag that he should make his movements more fluid… his expression more relaxed… find that hair-thin line between the pure strength he needs to pull-off those jumps and the grace to enchant all who look his way so as to spin them into the story he tells; the masterpiece he carves across the rink with the ice as the canvas and his body as the tool.

Almost like he’d never even left it, Neuvillette finds his balance on the ice with eventual ease. Instinct kicks in as he holds himself with all the elegance of the one who had once enchanted thousands.

Now, though, there is only one before him… one that means the most. Worth so much more than anything else in the world.

As bright as the rink’s lights are, nothing can compare to the sight before him—the smile upon Wriothesley’s face like the sun itself as he practically glows while watching as Neuvillette moves forward with each step back that Wriothesley himself takes; pride clear as day in how he can’t help the way his eyes begin to glisten, voice shaking ever so slightly with the effort it takes to keep it strong and steady. And Neuvillette can’t help the amused sound that escapes him as he continues to keep pace, not yet trusting himself to form the words of his usual response.

Though, in a way, such words are never needed between them. Not anymore. The way Wriothesley pauses to flash him a knowing grin before continuing to skate only further proving the point.

“Some dust got in my eye. That’s all.” Comes the explanation accompanied by another gentle squeeze of a hand. It’s a lie. A blatant one that Neuvillette plays along with anyway as he allows the hand that had still been resting on the barrier to instead cup Wriothesley’s cheek, thumb rubbing over the eye Wriothesley closes… Only for Wriothesley to take his hand and press a gentle kiss to the back of it, his lips warm against Neuvillette’s skin.

To each knuckle, many more kisses are offered. Within each one lies silent promises and words unsaid, oh so loving in the way their warmth curls around them both almost protectively in pride and encouragement.

The following laughter brings with it another weight off his chest, and Neuvillette finds himself finally returning the smile as he lets the movements fall into place. One leg pushing, followed by the other as he exchanges the tentative shuffling he’d begun with for what he should be doing. What his body knows to do as easily as breathing. What it used to do in such a way—

Each movement is stiff, and he knows he may as well be practically limping across the ice… but it’s a start.

“That’s it, love. I’ve got you.” Wriothesley repeats over and over again, words of praise drifting across his skin until Neuvillette can barely fight against the blush threatening to creep upon his cheeks (and perhaps Wriothesley was right indeed for having booked the whole place for themselves, ridiculous as it had sounded at the time). The intended effect is not lost on him, each loving whisper accompanying him through the depths of his thoughts until the ghosts of the past are but a faint buzzing in the back of his mind.

In reality, they’ve barely moved from the entrance; not even a quarter of the rink’s circumference covered by the time Neuvillette begins to feel the familiar ache once more, real this time in the way it spreads through muscle and bone. The progress is barely anything, but it is still something. And so he allows himself to lean into Wriothesley just that bit more, grounded by the arm wrapped around his waist and the low voice that goes on and on about the movie they had watched the other night, the tea they had shared earlier in the morning, the way one of their cats still only listened to Neuvillette and Neuvillette alone without even sparing Wriothesley a glance. Miniscule moments in the big picture of it all… yet such times had together remain precious all the same. Treasured times kept within their hearts holding the warmth of their love in its simplest form—simply being there with each other.

The steady pace they had set before slows to a crawl by the time they make their way halfway around, Neuvillette’s movements faltering every so often as he continues to push on despite the way his body begins to tire. Continues to do his best and focus not on the nausea the rising pain brings but instead on the precious flickering flame of desire within his heart and the hope it carries along with it.

Just one more lap… please… Neuvillette finds himself begging to none but his own body when they finally return to their starting point, clinging onto the happiness sparked within his chest like a lifeline alongside the one realisation he’d been refusing to acknowledge this whole time. A reality he’d pushed aside in favour of what he’d thought would hurt less. After all, it was always easier to stop something one hates rather than loves.

Neuvillette misses being on the ice. Dearly.

Despite it all, he never could hate it; never could find it in himself to throw away that part of him even as his career had been announced as over to the whole world. Forever archived by the cameras that had caught his fall from grace, pitiful form crumpling the moment he’d left the ice and resulting in a kiss and cry seat left empty from his weakness.

He’d stubbornly refused to accept the truth until he couldn’t anymore, paying the highest price short of actual death for it all. But there never was any escape. Not when it had been his everything. Not when it still continues to be despite his vehement denial.

“One more lap,” Neuvillette finally asks, determination lending his voice strength even as the state of his body suggests otherwise. His lungs burn, the creaking of his joints almost audible even in his shameful attempt to conceal the stiffness that spreads with radiating pain, eyes reddened from the overwhelming nature of it all.

For a moment, Wriothesley pauses as his grip tightens and pulls them both to a stop. His eyes narrow, lips parting as if to speak.

Neuvillette is almost ready to be met with resistance, to be told that it’s better that they stop here for the day—

But then Wriothesley is nodding, nudging them forward and past the gate as he repeats: “One more lap.” And Neuvillette allows himself to be brought along. For, even if Wriothesley is now doing most of the work while guiding Neuvillette forward and standing ever so slightly closer so as to take even that little bit much more weight off of his bad leg, Neuvillette is on the ice again and that is what matters even as the inevitable bitterness of frustration creeps in at how his legs refuse to move as he wants them to with each increasingly agonising movement.

One more lap is what he’d asked for, and that is as much as he gets.

He almost doesn’t realise when Wriothesley leads him toward the gate afterwards. Barely even notices how he’s guided to the nearest seat, Wriothesley kneeling and helping with his skate guards when his leg refuses to bend the way he needs it to and the rest of him fights a losing battle against sudden dizziness and fatigue that had come crashing down all at once the moment they’d stepped off the ice.

A bottle of water is placed in Neuvillette’s hands alongside the small packet of his medication, something draped across his shoulders, and Neuvillette goes through the motions that he must; allowing his head to rest upon Wriothesley’s offered shoulder as he waits for the worst of it to pass.

It hurts. But, somehow, Neuvillette finds it in himself to smile even as he takes steadying breaths; focusing on the music playing through the rink and counting the beats. It hurts. But, amidst it all, there is a strange satisfaction deep within him. It hurts. But Neuvillette finds an odd spark of joy he never thought he could feel again, one that makes him whole and fills him with the warmth of returning home.

It hurts. But, for once, there is light in the darkness.

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette finally speaks after a long while, sitting up to look at the other as he does so. The hand offered is taken gratefully and a smile speaking “I’m okay” is returned as he takes a moment to shift his leg to something more comfortable in this position, decidedly allowing his mask to fall ever so slightly as he finally looks into Wriothesley’s eyes.

What had he ever done to deserve such care, such love, such warmth…? The words are heard, the depth and importance of them clear as day to his heart, but his mind continues to struggle. It questions, calculates, and denies. Scars of the past had hardened over time, leaving him as such.

Nonetheless, he knows what it feels like. Experiences it in the caring words and actions sent his way each waking moment and the loving warmth that envelopes him even through his sleep. Sees it again now in the way Wriothesley waits for him to continue, open and patient—“What is it, love?”

Through it all, one pure thought comes through. Unaffected by the shadows that continue to plague his mind still.

“... Thank you.” The words hang between them, soft and gentle in their attempt to carry over all that is within Neuvillette’s heart. Countless emotions that can hardly be put into mere words, much to his frustration.

And so it is with this that he finally leans into Wriothesley’s waiting embrace, arms thrown around his beloved’s shoulders as he buries his face into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck and lets go of the final thread he’d been grasping onto so tightly. Falling apart the way he’d so been trying not to. Not missing a single beat, Wriothesley carefully lifts Neuvillette into his lap, arms wrapping around his waist to pull him close.

No tears are shed even though it feels like they should be. Nonetheless, he trembles all the same… gasping breaths taken in between quiet sobs against heated skin. Grasping on for dear life as if letting go would cause his whole world to fall apart.

“You were—” Wriothesley pauses, gaze softening as a smile curves across his lips and his hands brush through Neuvillette’s hair before continuing. “You are amazing. And I’m so proud of you.”

The words finally spoken out loud wrap around him like a blanket, and Neuvillette simply holds Wriothesley tighter as he allows them to sink in. He’s not amazing—far from it, he thinks—but maybe…

Maybe he could try. Just as he’d tried to return to the ice once more, perhaps he could try and eventually understand the answer to the ‘whys’ that elude him. Maybe then, it would all feel right again. Maybe.

They stay like that for many long moments until the light of the sun fades, giving way to the calm of night visible through the glass. The hug is firm and oh so warm, and Neuvillette is almost sorrowful to break it in order to make the trip home. But his body is insistent in the way it continues to ache (though much more manageably so), and a glance at his phone tells him that it should be about time for dinner so the comfort is one he must temporarily part from.

More time than necessary is spent carefully making the rest of the way to the locker rooms, one hand gripping his cane and the other Wriothesley’s arm. But the trip itself is another small victory Neuvillette files away even as he allows Wriothesley to lift his leg to make removing his skates just that much easier as his knee protests his attempts at any sort of movement at all.

Eventually, his shoes are on and his bag slung over his shoulder. And when they finally reach their car, Neuvillette cannot help the way he winces as he settles into the passenger seat, hand fruitlessly clutching at the fabric of his pants over the offending limb as if it would ease anything.

Guilt fills his heart, traitorous as it is, as Wriothesley flashes a concerned glance through the mirror. One returned with a nod that is the most Neuvillette can muster as the car’s movement inevitably jostles him ever so slightly from the uneven roads no matter how carefully they go. And—

The silence is broken by the sound of a melody being hummed, Neuvillette blinking as Wriothesley reaches over to adjust the fluff of his coat still wrapped around him to pull it closed and let the fabric of it rest over Neuvillette’s leg as well. The light eventually turns green and Wriothesley’s gaze returns to the road, but the song doesn’t stop. Instead, it continues to dance around him, rough yet soothing all the same.

Outside, rain begins to fall, small droplets landing across the glass that fogs with each breath puffed against it. His leg aches… yet…

“That song—” Neuvillette begins, allowing the corners of his lips to curve upwards ever so slightly as he recognises it. The program is one he knows by heart. One from the first time they’d ever skated together… and the very same song played earlier in the rink; almost lost in the emotion of it all yet the memory of it drifts back to the surface nonetheless.

How young they had been back then, hearts ablaze and dreams set as they’d danced, and danced, and danced. The ice itself bore the marks of their efforts each time, and bodies pushed to the limit with each spin, each jump, each lift. Fighting as if each competition would be their last even as they rose on their separate paths.

How fitting it was, in a way. And oh the gentle look on Wriothesley’s face through the mirror tells Neuvillette as much as he needs.

“I found the file while looking through some things,” Is all Wriothesley says as the car is pulled into the parking lot, the warmth of his arms around Neuvillette returning the moment he steps out as well. Something shifts, the resounding crack much too loud, and Neuvillette sighs as he grips his cane tighter.

This time, Neuvillette says nothing of how Wriothesley pulls him closer as if to steal a quick kiss—which he does, bringing with him more of that gentle, loving warmth—but also walks along with him as they climb the small step up to their door where excited barking and the tapping of paws against hardwood can already be heard even through the material.

A tight embrace follows the slight stumble as they reach the top of it, and Neuvillette does not miss the way Wriothesley holds him just that much closer, smiling gratefully when the waves pass and he finds himself once more.

“Well, looks like someone’s excited,” Wriothesley laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners in his mirth as he turns the knob. Just as expected, what follows is a flurry of black and white fur that happily circles them, quickly calming as it follows them to the couch where Neuvillette finally can have his leg propped up.

And oh how that feels… It takes everything within him not to cry as tears of relief blur his vision, keeping the position the best he can with the help of the cushions laid out by his sides. Like this, the throbbing ache seems to spread through his entire being, threatening to drive him mad with its presence, but at least his mind and body can let go of the need to keep himself standing.

Hand petting at the now-peaceful ball of fluff that had chosen to so carefully lay down beside him and lend its warmth and a grounding pressure, Neuvillette hums, “I wonder who he takes after indeed...” (The resemblance is almost striking, really.)

As he says this, a smaller figure emerges from the cushions, purring gently as it seats itself in his lap and promptly allows its eyes to drift closed as it claims its new resting spot—though peeking one open as Wriothesley kneels in an attempt to pet it.

The look on the other’s face is priceless, and Neuvillette can barely hold back the urge to comment as the talk from back in the rink about ‘a certain cat of theirs playing favourites’ comes back to mind. A jest, they both know. It truly was amusing how much of a personality had come from the shy young kitten they had adopted, and the sweet thing did truly love them both.

Raising his hands in an almost theatrical show of defence, Wriothesley huffs as he rises once more, watching the offending cat with feigned betrayal. The very sight of which has Neuvillette wanting to reach out and pet the other’s hair that had only grown wilder from the winds outside as they’d made their way in, close as he was.

“Will you be alright?” The question is asked in a brief meeting of lips, Neuvillette smiling into the touch as his hand caresses Wriothesley’s cheek until the other begins to pull away.

“I will.” He responds as he allows his hand to wander, brushing off the droplets of rain that had landed upon Wriothesley’s hair before sinking into the soft comfort the couch so blissfully provides with the help of strong, guiding, arms that adjust the cushions around him just right.

“Alright, alright! Heard you loud and clear, kitty.” Wriothesley laughs, glancing between the two furred companions currently both seeking Neuvillette’s attention with soft noises and insistent brushes against him as they lend their presence as comfort. “I’ll get dinner for us ready in a moment, love. Their honours have spoken.”

At this, Neuvillette sighs as he shakes his head with a smile, “Indeed, it does not seem like I have much of a choice.”

And it is with that that Neuvillette finds himself lying in near-silence with only the light classical music playing from the speakers and the sounds of light purring and Wriothesley’s workings in the kitchen filling the space.

It did not take long for Neuvillette to begin to drift off, the hand that had idly been carding through soft fur slowing in its motion as the medication he’d given in to taking began to work its magic—the unbearable ache dulling to something manageable and fatigue creeping up on him.

When was the last time he’d been on ice? The last time he’d allowed himself to indulge in such a feeling? The last time he’d been able to simply ‘be’ and feel oh so whole?

Neuvillette could hardly remember. Time having blended into an indeterminate blur over the past years.

Did he regret it? Absolutely not. Not even as his body burns; the price of his decision consuming his mind, reminding and insisting that he never should have made such a reckless choice. Stubbornness and the flickering flame of a dream thought long lost to everwinter’s chill having brought about the decision.

Vaguely, Neuvillette makes out the sharp clang of metal clashing against metal from the direction of the kitchen, soft meows responding to each and every one of Wriothesley’s words. The sounds fade in and out as his attention comes and goes like waves crashing into the shore, the exhaustion from the day finally taking him with it.

It had crept up on him gradually, movements growing sluggish and responses fading into mere hums and nods from more than just the pain occupying his mind. It had been there in the arena, the car… and now, Neuvillette feels the full force of it in the heaviness of his limbs, haze in his mind, and all that threatened to pull him into the sweet realm of rest that had seemed so out of reach mere moments ago.

Perhaps a short nap would help…

And, just like that, blissful rest takes him once more… though much more peacefully this time as plush cushions and kind, loving warmth take the place of what had used to just be cold, hard flooring and the raised voices of the demons that haunted him.

Idly stirring at the soup within the pot, ladle clanking against the sides every so often, Wriothesley focuses the best he can on the task at hand—or at least tries to.

Worry wraps itself tight around him, claws digging at his throat and whispers overpowering the gentle bubbling of the soup before him and the classical music drifting over from the living room. What ifs fill what silence remains, mind flickering to the expression upon Neuvillette’s face as they’d hesitated at the rink’s entrance… the way the shadows had slowly receded as a spark re-ignited within Neuvillette, barely there yet the sight of it was enough to bring tears to his eyes from the pride in his heart especially having known just how much it had taken… before finally falling on the shattered mask that now still lies upon his beloved’s face.

Years of sheer determination had made their mark; forming golden cracks upon the unmoving shield that protected Neuvillette’s heart from the world. Years of trying and failing, a cruel cycle of the gain and loss of hope. Acceptance and denial hanging in the balance as dreams fought against the harsh reality. And now…

Wriothesley still remembers the day the proposal had been made. Neuvillette had greeted him with a kiss the moment he’d stepped off the ice as usual, towel and water in hand as he accompanied Wriothesley through the motions of his post-practice routine and gave comments on his performance as he saw fit—how he could have had better rhythm leading up to the entry of a jump at some points, adjusted an edge to be deeper, transitioned with more grace so as to better embody the music. All had been as usual, until silence had fallen and he’d looked up to see Neuvillette avoiding his gaze, hands clenched in his lap.

Without missing a beat, Wriothesley had been by his side. He’d taken those hands in his own; asked “What’s on your mind?” oh so carefully and waited for Neuvillette to finally look at him. And that he did, something burning within those eyes as he spoke—“I wish to skate… to be on the ice again just as before.”

For a moment too long, Wriothesley had stared as he’d turned the words over in his head and things began to click into place. And, through it all, the look in Neuvillette’s eyes spoke all that was necessary.

“There is no need to trouble yourself, I will manage—” Perhaps much too eagerly, Wriothesley had interrupted the other by taking him into his arms, almost practically spinning about with Neuvillette lifted into the air in the high of the moment.

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

And so they’d begun to work toward the goal. Hours after hours of discussion on how to go about it. Tentative attempts were made at stepping onto the ice, and many more even simply continuing to maintain the strength required both mentally and physically. It hurt, Wriothesley knew that much; internal battle and frustration clear as day each time… After all, it is one Wriothesley himself knows in his own way. But Neuvillette had not given up. Not once. Not ever.

Not even on days when he had barely been able to move in the aftermath of his efforts, silent in his pain as he’d simply laid there with Wriothesley by his side offering all that he can with all that he is. Never once doubting and, each time, proving that treacherous voice of the past wrong.

That kind love can be just as strong. That it is not weak to feel. That he is enough.

Eventually, all of it had built up to the very moment in the present. Of efforts returned with results. A seemingly small step, yet everything all at once. Precious few moments where Neuvillette’s light shone bright and true, joy pure as ever as he’d returned to the place that had been his everything for most if not all of his life. If only they had been able to record such a moment… but that was for the many more ‘next times’ that were sure to come—

A soft noise and the feeling of something tugging at him has Wriothesley’s attention brought back to the present. And it is then that he notices two things: first that the bowl of soup on the stove is about to boil out of its pot, and second that a familiar meowing is coming by his feet.

“Hey there you,” Quickly turning off the stove, he then bends down to scoop up the cat that had been pawing at him—the sweet thing calming the moment he did so as it gazed up at him with the same wide eyes it did that very day they’d found it and its sibling and taken them home. “Smells good, doesn’t it?”

The soup is a light, comforting thing; a recipe pulled from the memory of when Neuvillette had last guided him in making it from the couch. A rough day, that had been.

Still, distraction had been found in the way Wriothesley had brought over vegetables to be cut so as to chase away the guilt that always came with such times that rendered him a burden unable to do anything but exist, the feeling of still being able to do something making all the difference. His mind had been kept from falling into dark depths by the voice that had risen above the thoughts invading his mind, replacing them with comments about the day they’d had even to the most minuscule detail like the temperature of the tea they’d had. The ache in his leg soothed by loving touches and the warm presence of the other who reminded him of one simple thing that meant the whole world: That he was not alone. Not anymore.

That much had been shared in the darkness of night, words of the heart revealed as they’d laid in the comfort of each other’s embrace and bared their souls with trust indescribable by words. For, at least here… they could be themselves. Never mind anything else.

Such a dish had also been the very thing Neuvillette had made for Wriothesley all those years ago. Pulling him from the darkness with its warmth. But that is a story for another day.

A curious sniff is accompanied by a soft meow (hopefully of approval) before leaping from his grasp. And, with a final glance in the direction of the living room, Wriothesley hums along as he scoops the soup into bowls and prepares the table just as they usually do—a full set of utensils laid out and slices of bread brought to the centre.

“Neuvi—” Wriothesley begins, but the sight of Neuvillette resting on the couch, eyes closed and breaths steady in sleep, has him pausing with a small smile dancing across his lips. No wonder.

Bowl placed on the table, he approaches carefully.

“Thank you,” He whispers to the cat still lying on Neuvillette’s lap, meeting its curious gaze and watching as it looks between him and the other cat now calling out in a request to join it. A stark contrast, really, from the chaotic little ball of energy that had been reaching for everything he’d put out on the counter earlier (managing to knock a few small bowls of ingredients over, even) in the way it greets its sibling, careful not to disturb. This time, when Wriothesley reaches out, what meets him is simply a gentle rub and soft purr. And it is like this that the pair leave them, joining their ‘sibling’ already happily digging into the food he’d laid out by their usual spots.

“Neuvillette, love,” Wriothesley tries again, brushing a stray strand of hair out of Neuvillette’s face and thumbing gently at his cheek as he takes a hand in his own. Hate as he would to have to wake the other from sleep… they both know what the next day would look like should Wriothesley’s heart win over his mind. Experienced the result one too many times before.

So it is with careful touches that he rouses his beloved, smiling once more as the eyes that slowly blink open hold just that bit more clarity within them.

Distantly, he remembers nights spent wide awake, silence filled with quiet sobs and whimpers accompanying each futile shift; frustration strung tight in the way Neuvillette clutched futilely at the leg betraying him, curling into himself as if that would ease anything at all. Nights where Wriothesley himself had barely been able to do anything, words of comfort dying in his chest for he knows there is nothing he can do. Nothing but gently wipe away the unfallen tears, place his hand over the one about to break skin with the force it clenched on itself with, and offer his warmth to remind the fading star in his arms that he is not alone.

Just as Neuvillette had stood by his side even as the world turned against him, so would Wriothesley even as everything Neuvillette had shone for lies in shattered pieces left on the ice that fateful day. Because he knows. Knows the cruelty of it all. Knows what it’s like to have a dream taken, torn to shreds, and mocked simply for being human. Knows what it’s like to fight through hell to climb back up, falling time and time again yet continuing to stand up because there is no other way—that death itself would have been kinder, even.

And so is such peace made all the more precious, the slight smile making all the difference. A glimmer of true light amongst the shadows.

I’ll make up for it later, Wriothesley promises as he continues to rouse Neuvillette from his peaceful rest as gently as he can. Reaching for the other’s hand, Wriothesley traces the lines of it. Holding tight and waiting as violet eyes flutter open, glancing around the room in confusion before finally focusing on him.

And it is then that Wriothesley finally lifts Neuvillette’s hand to his lips once more, placing a playful kiss on the open palm that later cups his cheek.

Cute. Wriothesley thinks as he catches how Neuvillette’s gaze lingers, breaking eye contact to watch his lips and then lower to where he knows he’d tied the too-tight apron around his waist. A rushed effort to not have the fabric shift too much while cutting the ingredients earlier, really—after all it would do no good to have the apron (or fur upon his shirt that it was covering up) dipping into the food they would eat. And if that, layered on top of the fitting fabric he usually wears whenever they take to the ice, can have his beloved reacting in such a way… maybe it wasn’t quite a complete ‘accident’ after all.

“Is something the matter?” He asks, trying to keep an amused smile from creeping its way upon his lips as he places a finger beneath Neuvillette’s chin to tilt his head up that slightest bit more so their eyes meet. Giving into the urge to tease if at least to hopefully distract the best he can. Even for a moment.

“No, I— My apologies, it seems I had underestimated how…” Neuvillette begins, a rosy tint dusting his cheeks though he does not move to pull away. Instead leaning into Wriothesley’s touch the best he can without shifting his leg, and smiling even as pain renders his posture rigid and muscles tight.

Guilt is a shadow across Neuvillette’s delicate features softened by the diffused lighting, handing heavy on the eyes that refuse to meet his own anymore as a shuddering breath leaves chapped lips that attempt to curve into a smile.

As Neuvillette’s voice trails off, Wriothesley allows his hand to trace the lines of the other’s face before resting against his cheek in a soothing caress mirroring Neuvillette’s own touch. I’m here, he repeats in each touch.

“It’s alright, love.” You needed it.

“...”

No response comes. But he knows his words have reached in the way Neuvillette relaxes even the slightest bit, eyes closed for a second and worried lines across his forehead easing. And that much is enough at least for now.

“Allow me to help? Just a bit, of course. To take the edge off.” Wriothesley asks even though he already knows the answer that awaits him, Neuvillette sighing almost helplessly as he nods.

A kiss to Neuvillette’s forehead and Wriothesley is kneeling before him once more to press another kiss to the offending limb that bothers his beloved so, lending kindness to the frustration he knows burns within. There, he lingers in a request for permission before bringing his hand to Neuvillette’s leg and carefully working to ease what he can; attention trained on each reaction as he allows fingers to press into knots beneath too-warm skin hidden under fabric.

Each muffled sound and restrained shift of muscle is caught, observed loud and clear and taken into account as light touches grow more purposeful. At one point, Neuvillette’s hand grabs at his own, hesitating before closing around his wrist, and Wriothesley pauses his movements to focus his attention on Neuvillette once more. “Sorry, did I—”

Another too-long pause, and Wriothesley watches as Neuvillette takes one breath, and then another, before responding; his voice soft and gaze distant. “No… It was good. You may continue.”

“Neuvillette, look at me. If I am hurting you… you need to let me know.” Scenes of the past flicker through Wriothesley’s vision as his voice grows sterner than he’d like it to be. Almost instantly, he regrets the slip, wincing as he takes in the way Neuvillette worries at his lower lip. After the last time—

“You are not. I assure you. I simply just…” Countless emotions dance within those violet eyes, the soul that lies within turbulent in its battle against itself; thoughts almost audible. “You need not go so far.”

“Tell me, love… Does it help?”

“It does.”

“Then that is enough for me,” Wriothesley smiles as he shifts forward, “So let me help. Please.”

“Alright.”

Slowly, the tension in Neuvillette’s pained expression eases, eyes reddened when he finally drops the arm that had been held over them and lower lip swollen from when he’d bit into it earlier. It’s not the best, far from it. But it is the most he can do in the position they’re in… at least for now.

“I heard the commotion from the kitchen earlier,” A while later, Neuvillette glances to the side where their beloved ‘little family’ is curled up atop a single cushion even as two others lay unoccupied to the sides. “The usual?”

Indeed. The ‘kids’ had been as excited as ever when it came to preparing meals… or at least one of them had been.

“The usual. Don’t worry, she was off the counter the moment the stove was started.”

The smile upon Neuvillette’s lips widens ever so slightly, warm and loving as a hand runs through Wriothesley’s hair and draws him closer. A thumb drifts across Wriothesley’s lips, pressing and dipping between them, and Wriothesley finds himself holding back the urge to bite down almost teasingly as he meets his love’s glassy gaze. “I am alright now, truly… thank you.”

It is what you deserve, Wriothesley thinks as he leans into the touch before returning to Neuvillette’s side on the couch. For all that Neuvillette has given him, all that Neuvillette is… this much is what Neuvillette deserves. All the care, kindness, and warmth he can offer in return. More, even.

“I will hold you to that then, Monsieur Neuvillette~” He moves ever closer, stealing yet another kiss which earns him a fond sigh. Innocently enough, he wraps an arm around Neuvillette’s waist and toys with the fabric of the other’s shirt, hand slipping into a pocket. The other arm is then brought beneath Neuvillette’s knees, almost as if to—

In one smooth movement, Wriothesley lifts Neuvillette from the couch and into his arms, taking extra care not to jostle his beloved too much. Neuvillette’s arms wrap around him in turn, face buried into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck as he barely holds back a yelp of surprise followed by a heatless rebuke that truly only has Wriothesley holding on even tighter.

“Wriothesley!”

“Right here, sweetheart.” Wriothesley laughs, stopping in place as he straightens up and allows Neuvillette to adjust to the new position and waits for even the slightest hint of discomfort. A part of him chides his recklessness in handling the other for the sake of teasing, yet the smile on Neuvillette’s face and the light in his eyes is quick to chase such thoughts away.

Focus, he tells himself. And, bit by bit, the familiar motions of their usual evenings begin to fall into place; aided by the time spent preparing dinner and observations made on the ride home. Wriothesley knows what he can do to help. Knows what he should do to help. But none of that matters if Neuvillette himself is not up to it. And so, with hope, he asks, “Now then, as much as I would love to stay here with you all night… how does dinner, a warm bath, and then bed sound?”

Another pause and Wriothesley is almost ready to lower Neuvillette once more and spend as much time as he needs by the other’s side until it is alright again. Bring dinner’s soup over if only to make it that much easier on the other though he knows how much Neuvillette dislikes him having to go out of the way for such things. “Wriothesley, there is no need,” he could almost hear the other chide.

Countless apologies are at the tip of his tongue, eyes softening and hands pressing into Neuvillette’s skin as the other simply leans into his chest— But then Neuvillette is relaxing in his arms, eyes opened once more to meet Wriothesley’s gaze as he finally speaks once more. “It would be much appreciated. That is… only if it would not be too much of a bother. I am able to handle myself.”

“Oh but I want to,” So badly does he want Neuvillette to be able to understand just how much he means to him. To know that he is never a bother. That he deserves the world, even just as himself. As Neuvillette, the man who likes his water at certain temperatures depending on its origin and long walks along the coastline. Neuvillette, who would spend hours picking up a new craft if it meant he would be able to gift something personal to others without keeping any of the fruits of his labour for his own enjoyment. Neuvillette, who continues to wish the best for all those around him even at the expense of himself.

Years of conditioning, of being told otherwise, are hard to undo. The scars on his heart and body are permanent. Wriothesley knows this… and so does Neuvillette. All too well.

But just as even the thickest ice can be melted eventually, perhaps all that is required is time and the warmth that had been lacking before. That and a space to just be.

Thus does Wriothesley offer this warmth in the form of a vow made just for the evening. One of care and comfort much deserved. “It’s been a long day. Let me take care of you, Neuvillette.”

And Wriothesley only hopes the sentiment reaches. Wishing on all he can that the words will be able to break through the demons that threaten to corrupt their meaning and reach Neuvillette, even if they are not fully accepted.

“... Please.”

The undercurrent of Neuvillette’s voice almost breaks Wriothesley’s heart; has him wishing more than anything that he can take the pain away and fight the demons that lurk in the darkness though he knows he cannot do such a thing. All he can offer, instead, is yet another kiss as he holds the other close and the promise that he will be here through it all no matter how hard the rain may pour.

Even sitting, he rests Neuvillette’s leg over his own beneath the table, allowing the other to adjust as needed until a spark of comfort returns and he can savour the meal before him in a semblance of peace.

Dinner itself is a quiet affair of spoons clinking against ceramic bowls every so often, conversation had in the quirking of lips, raising of brows, and tilting of heads until the soup is no more.

And, in the bath promised, warm waters are drawn and infused with calming lavender that mixes with the soft notes of the shampoo Neuvillette so loves to use. Amidst the loving carding of calloused fingers through silken hair, Wriothesley takes extra care in running his fingers across his beloved’s skin, shaping whatever bubbles formed into miniature figures he playfully places atop the water to drift about. And when Neuvillette’s breathing eventually evens out, back leaning into Wriothesley’s chest that slightest bit more, Wriothesley simply continues with fondness in his heart, only waking the other when all is done and it is time they step out.

For now, as with many other things, he will pretend that the droplets falling across Neuvillette’s cheeks are simply from the shower above.

“Go. I will join you.” Neuvillette says, gripping the edge of the sink as his hair falls in a curtain around him, and Wriothesley knows better than to comment on the way his hands shake as he does so. Such questions do not belong to this space. Not yet. And that… perhaps the questions are ones not even Neuvillette have yet to be fully aware of as well—their answers buried beneath years upon years of having sealed his heart away out of fear of what lies within.

Sprawled out across the bed, Wriothesley takes Neuvillette into his embrace with open arms the moment he returns—thumb tracing the tired lines of red-rimmed eyes before cupping the cheek that turns to rest against his shoulder. Purposefully placed pillows lie around Neuvillette’s leg, keeping it in place as he takes whatever comfort he can, and Wriothesley does what he can to help; keeping as close as he can without disturbing the fine balance between pain and comfort found. Temporary as it may be.

As such, each moment is made all the more precious. And skilled fingers work at gathered strands, twisting them in a mimic of dance until a neat braid falls across Neuvillette’s shoulder the best Wriothesley can with the practice he’s had.

“Beautiful,” he whispers with a slight smirk, chuckling lowly as he watches skin redden beneath his praise and feels the way Neuvillette’s breath hitches and pulse quickens with each heartfelt word that fills the silence.

“Thank you for today.” Wriothesley chooses to finish with, placing a kiss to the base of Neuvillette’s neck as his hands wrap around the other’s waist in a warm embrace that lasts for as long as it can before they settle into bed. “I’m so proud of you.” He adds, echoing the words from when they’d still been upon the ice.

How fleeting, dreams are. A single moment able to end a lifetime’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears spilt.

In a way, the process of fighting back to the surface with all that one has can itself reveal new perspectives. Especially when one finds oneself at the brink. After all, what else is there to lose when what had been one’s whole life has been ripped from their very hands?

What now? In life, there is only one choice. To move forward no matter what. To rise and to fall. To break and to be put back together again.

What has been broken can never be made perfect again, lines of gold holding together rough shards that may not even belong in the place they find themselves in. But there is beauty to be found in such a sight—unique ‘imperfections’ that are, rather, what makes a person themselves. Wriothesley himself knows this much, the scar beneath his eye and scraping across his neck having long since been a part of him. Proof of the battles faced to reach the point he has.

Fragile would be the last thing Wriothesley would describe Neuvillette to be, for Neuvillette is not glass; far from it. He knows the strength that lies within that heart and experienced itself. The strength of a heart that remains pure despite it all, even as the cracks in it are filled time and time again with each cut made by invisible blades belonging to both others and Neuvillette himself.

And so it is with all the love in his heart that Wriothesley traces fingers across the invisible cracks upon Neuvillette’s skin, feeling the other shudder and relax all the same beneath his touch as each and every fragmented shard of his soul is worshipped the way it deserves

The air between them heats, each bit of distance becoming too much between flushed skin and panting breaths. But they both know they cannot go further, chuckling into the kiss that follows before pulling apart. And Wriothesley can only watch as Neuvillette tears himself away, asking for help in a way he never does unless he is at his very limit in the grimace that spreads across his face the moment the bed beneath them shifts every so slightly in the movement.

Obliging, Wriothesley does the best he can, rearranging pillows and blankets as he tries to ignore the way Neuvillette’s breath hitches and expression twists with each movement. A barrier quite literally formed between them as Wriothesley settles into his half of the bed in another night spent apart rather than in each other’s arms for to do so would be much too cruel on the still-healing pieces of Neuvillette barely held together.

Still, a hand is held out in offering. A reminder of his presence; and that while this may be Neuvillette’s pain… he does not need to deal with it alone. Not anymore. Just as before, the hand is taken, fingers slotting in between his own and holding on tight like a lifeline even as quiet sobs begin to fill the night alongside trembling breaths.

Oh how he wishes to take Neuvillette into his arms; to hold him tight and protect him from the world. From himself, even.

Even without saying, Wriothesley knows that these tears are not of sadness, anger, or frustration; but rather of a flame reignited, hope regained, and a dream rediscovered once more.

[To dream again… Oh how beautiful it is to do so, painful as the journey may be.]

It is a journey they’ve gone down before. Time and time again. And it is a journey they will continue to chase… if only to feel what it is like to rise above all and continue to find the unwavering strength to move forward. To continue dreaming.

How young they had been back then, hearts ablaze and dreams glittering like the rink lights. Splendid in the short time they’d shone. It felt like they could have spent an eternity dancing both together and apart, the marks of their efforts lingering upon the ice no matter how many times it was resurfaced. No matter how long it had been since they last stepped upon it. They had pushed their limit with each spin, each jump, each lift. Fighting for that high with a hunger nothing could ever compare to and paying the price in blood.

Now, the circumstances may be different. But their hearts remain unchanged.

Where there had once only been loneliness, there now lies companionship. Loving warmth soothing over wounds of the past the best it can as another hand firmly holds their own. Squeezing gently rather than punishing. Encouraging rather than belittling. Restoring that flickering flame bit by bit… and bringing a will to fight not for something else, but for themselves.

What does it mean to dream again? Perhaps it is to allow oneself to want… and to do so with one’s entire being to the point that the burning ember turns into a flame made to illuminate the dark path ahead and provide strength for whatever may come. Or, simply, to just feel.

The hand in his squeezes back, tentative at first. Still, Wriothesley finds himself letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as he returns the gesture, warming the hand in his own the best he can. Reminding Neuvillette again that he is here; that he is not alone. And never will have to be anymore.

Words remain unspoken once again… but they are not needed; not for this.

You are enough.

I’m here for you.

I love you.

Simple words. Yet they mean everything.