Chapter Text
It shouldn’t be hard. It almost never was, not for him.
Every time Wriothesley got in the ring, people already knew what to expect. He would step in, punch the fear of God onto some unsuspecting rookie who thought they could challenge him, collect his rightful money, and then get back home to his sister in time for dinner.
It really was as simple as that. Over the years, most people in the Semi-Professional Bare-Knuckle Boxing League came to understand that if you’re smart, you never bet whether Wriothesley will win or lose a fight.
You bet on how long his opponent can last.
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Outside the ring, he studies his adversary for the night while working on his hand wraps. They’re about the same height, but the man looks a bit heavier, so the best course of action would be to explore his speed. Every single competitor who’s ever set foot in the squared circle knows just how strong Wriothesley is, and his opponents are usually more guarded than the average boxer, forcing him to be creative to catch them by surprise.
Alas, nothing really ever comes for free, and the league pays handsomely for his resourcefulness.
He checks his boxing shoes and the wraps on his hands, then takes a look around. The place is packed with people, classic rock playing very loudly on the speakers. The noise from the crowd is insane, and he does this for the money — really, he does; it’d be impossible to pay for Sigewinne’s student loans and support them both with his traffic police officer salary — but Wriothesley can’t say he doesn’t get a kick out of hearing everyone cheer his name. It gives him a sick sense of power he tries not to think too hard about.
When the referee invites the fighters to take their places, he strips off his shirt to go up in the squared circle. A few surprised gasps at his scarred body tell him there must be some new faces in the audience.
Wriothesley smiles a little. Since he’s in a good mood tonight, maybe he’ll drag the fight a little longer, and put on a show for them. Make it really worth their time and dime.
“Toe the line.” As the referee instructs, both fighters position themselves on the scratch lines three feet apart in the middle of the ring. “Knuckle up!”
Wriothesley lunges forward and instantly lands the first blow, hitting a second punch right after. His opponent staggers back, leaning on the ropes, and he uses the moment to assess the crowd.
The more entertained they are, the more money he gets: the fight can’t end too quickly, but he also shouldn’t keep stalling for long. Some of the regulars also like it better when things are a little rougher, but tonight is a good night — and Wriothesley only ever gets truly violent on the occasional bad ones, most of the time he tries to put his adversaries down without hurting them too much. For tonight, he figures he’ll just dance with the guy a little, then knock him out when everyone’s had their fun. It shouldn’t be hard.
Everything goes according to plan, he circles around his opponent for a while, landing one punch here and there, and the man has yet to strike him once when a movement outside the ring catches Wriothesley’s attention.
A tall figure wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit, fair hair well past his waist loosely braided on his back, walks between the rows of chairs until he finds the front seats reserved for him and his companion. Accompanying him is a small woman with the same hair color as him and a fancy indigo-blue dress.
They look so good and so out of place at the same time that it catches Wriothesley off guard. His opponent doesn’t pass up the opportunity to grant him a jab and cross combo that leaves him spitting blood.
Wriothesley doesn’t even register the pain, only the shock of bringing a hand to his lips and seeing the wraps return bloodied for the first time in— he doesn’t even know how long. The fighter in front of him looks so proud it’s unnerving, but Wriothesley still shows him a good-natured, bloody grin.
“Alright, then. That was kinda fun, but playtime’s over now.”
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“Is this even legal? Excuse me, ouch, excuse me, sorry,” Furina asks, bumping and tripping her way through the crowd.
“Regretfully, yes.” Neuvillette explains, trailing elegantly after her, his hands behind his back, “They even call it a sport.”
She eyes the ring just as one of the boxers is sent reeling backward, holding the ropes for support.
“How very barbaric.”
“Indeed.” Neuvillette agrees, “Which begs the question: why did we come here?”
“Someone gave me tickets, and I got curious. Oh, here.” She points to their reserved seats. “Is it your first time, too?”
“No.” Neuvillette looks around, disgusted.
He would never understand why people hurt each other for sport, or why others liked to watch.
“Splendid.” Furina pats the seat beside her, “Then sit with me and explain the rules.”
“I’m not familiar with the laws of bare-knuckle boxing,” he obediently sits down, though, still looking around, “mostly they spar until the allotted time is over or one of them cannot stand anymore.”
“Gods! What if— wait, isn’t that your friend Wriothesley fighting in the ring?”
Neuvillette turns so fast that his head spins, meeting Wriothesley’s surprised eyes just as the other boxer clocks him in the face. His blood sprays on the floor, and Neuvillette quickly stands up while Wriothesley rubs his mouth with a bandaged hand. Following the boos from the crowd, Neuvillette sits down again, embarrassed, then looks intently inside the ring to see Wriothesley smile, his teeth pinkish with blood-mixed saliva. It’s a jarring sight, not completely unattractive because it gives him a wild, almost feral look, but Neuvillette hates it nonetheless.
He hates that Wriothesley does it for money, hates that people get excited over it, hates that he doesn’t understand it. But, most of all, he hates that the boxer seems to like it.
In Neuvillette’s mind, Wriothesley’s duality reads utterly incongruous. He is very polite, likes his tea with two sugar cubes, and loves animals and sunny days. People always praise him for his good relationship with his coworkers and the way he dotes on his younger sister. Then, every once in a while, he turns into this strange man who brutalizes others on a violent display of the darkest parts of human society, especially the wealthier circles that fund it, so vain and vulgar.
Wriothesley deserves better. He’s seen violence enough already, but for some reason, life keeps failing him again and again.
“Neuvillette, are you there??” Furina waves a hand in front of his face “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
Startled, he comes back to an angry Furina scowling at him.
“You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?” She complains.
“Ah, my apologies.” Neuvillette mumbles, staring at the new pair of fighters onstage with a frown, “Where’s Wriothesley?”
“Oh, the fight just ended. He knocked the other guy out with a crazy… punchy… move… or whatever.” She explains, astonished, “I didn’t know Wriothesley was that strong; the poor man went out like a light.”
“Please wait for me here, Miss Furina. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What? Neuvillette, wait!” Furina calls out, but he’s already up and moving.
It’s not difficult to find the locker room. He knocks before entering and finds Wriothesley unwrapping his hands. The bruises on his knuckles are not unusual for a pugilist, but this time there is also a cut with dried blood on his lower lip, which is unusual only for Wriothesley. The left side of his jaw is red and a little swollen, too.
“Oh, Monsieur Neuvillette!” he looks up and smiles, “Long time no see.”
“You’re injured,” Neuvillette informs, lamely, immediately chastising himself that Wriothesley obviously already knows that, and that’s no way to start a conversation.
“What? Oh, this?” Wriothesley touches his busted lip, letting out an awkward laugh, “Ehhhh… It’s nothing. I fumbled today; it’s totally on me.” at Neuvillette’s frown, he adds, “I never let them get to my face, you know. Expensive goods.” smiling, he turns his icy blue eyes to the ceiling, “That, and Sigewinne scolds me too much when I get home visibly hurt.”
“So, what happened tonight?”
“Uhh, nothing.” Wriothesley discards his ruined bandages in the trash, then shuffles his gym bag looking for clothes, “Just got a little distracted by the crowd, it was pretty packed tonight.”
“Indeed.”
Neuvillette is still standing awkwardly in the middle of the locker room, so Wriothesley shows him to one of the wooden benches.
“What brings you here tonight?” he asks, taking out a pair of gray sweatpants. Neuvillette looks away so he can have some privacy to change. “I thought you didn’t like it here.”
“I don’t.” Neuvillette grits out, “This ancient ritual is outdated and barbarian. The public looks at you like you’re a slab of meat.”
“Nah.” Wriothesley waves a dismissive hand, amused “They just get really turned on by the violent energy, I guess.”
“Nonsense.”
“Really? I guess an elegant man such as yourself would feel differently, after all. ” Wriothesley glances at him, “What does it for you, then?”
Neuvillette stays silent.
“Why did you come tonight? Was it to see me?”
He winks, and Neuvillette glowers at him.
“No need to be shy; I’m happy whenever I see you in the crowd.” Wriothesley grins, openly flirting, “It motivates me to win.”
This time, Neuvillette lets out a tired sigh. “It shouldn’t.”
Wriothesley’s back stiffens.
“Would you rather I lose?”
“I’d rather you stay clear of this wretched place.”
Oh, not this again.
In the past, Neuvillette used to come by a few times a month because the firm he worked for at the time sponsored the competition. It had never been a good experience for him, though. The first time he saw Wriothesley in the squared circle, he almost passed out, and they would fight every time they chanced upon each other. Then Neuvillette was appointed Chief Justice of Fontaine and never came to watch a fight again.
“Well, I’m good at it.” Wriothesley explains, rolling his eyes like it’s obvious and he’s done it a million times, “And Sigewinne’s school’s not gonna pay itself so…”
If it weren't beneath him, Neuvillette would groan.
“You have a respectable job. If you need a promotion, I could put in a good word with the—”
“No.” Wriothesley cuts, a sour expression twisting his face, “I don’t want that from you.”
“Why?” Neuvillette asks quickly, harshly, then looks down. “Apologies. It wasn’t my intention to overstep. I just want to help you.”
Sighing, Wriothesley sits by his side, setting his gym bag between them.
“I appreciate that, but even if you tried, there’s no way an ex-con like me can climb up the ranks, Monsieur Neuvillette. I should be glad I’m even allowed in the police force in the first place, and I know you had a hand in that too.”
It’s rare to see Neuvillette lose his composure, so it surprises Wriothesley when he bares his teeth, seething.
“You’ve paid your debt, Wriothesley, don’t EVER let anyone—” Neuvillette stops abruptly and takes a deep breath to calm himself, “Fontaine failed you, back then. The system failed you, and I’ll never forgive myself for my part in that.”
Ah.
So that’s what it is, Wriothesley reckons in disappointment.
In all honesty, he’d never held it against Neuvillette, just a young prosecutor back when everything went to shit. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own, and he’d never linked Neuvillette to the memories of his prison time. He’d never regretted what he’d done back in the day, only that it left his adopted sister alone for well over a decade. Sigewinne was so young when Wriothesley was taken away to serve his time in the Fortress of Meropide, so small and fragile. But she was safe because the people trying to harm her were gone; he’d made sure of that. Moreover, she’d always been well taken care of, and that was all thanks to Neuvillette. Just one of the many things the Chief Justice had done for them over the years.
So no, Wriothesley never blamed him. If anything, he’s grateful, even now that it’s all water under the bridge.
Maybe that’s why it stings so much, though, realizing that remorse is still the key motivator behind Neuvillette’s feelings and generosity towards him. If it wasn’t for his part in Wriothesley’s sentence, perhaps they would not even see each other again, and Neuvillette would not hang around him and Sigewinne anymore.
After all this time, he had hoped…
“I don’t want your guilt, either. It’s been 20 years, and you had nothing to do with it. Learn to forgive yourself.”
“Wriothesley…”
“Actions have consequences, I knew it back then and still know it now, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing.” His tone is final as he gets up to put on his shirt, then stuff his clothes back in his gym bag, “Drive home safely, Monsieur Neuvillette.”
Neuvillette opens his mouth, but no words come out. He reaches a hand to stop Wriothesley, trying to buy some time to gather his thoughts, but he swiftly dodges and leaves the locker room in 3 long strides, his steps loud in the silence of the room.
All alone, Neuvillette looks like a statue, unmoving and eternal, his beautiful features frozen in a painful expression. Rejection constricts his chest, making it hard to breathe, and Neuvillette stays glued to the bench long after Wriothesley is gone.