Chapter Text

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

“It’s not like this is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever had to do, right?”

“Mhmm. Sure,” she says.

“It’ll be fine! There’s nothing to worry about.” 

“I agree.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Lynette’s teacup clinks delicately as she brings it back to its saucer. 

“I’m sure you’ve already answered that question, dear brother. Privately. At length. In great detail. With no shortage of imagination.”

Lyney stops pacing only long enough to shoot her a glare.

“Lynette,” he whines. “I’m being serious!”

“I’m well aware.”

From his seat in the corner, with Pers tucked comfortably in his arms, Freminet chimes in. 

“Is… all of this necessary? I—that is, if you don’t want to…”

Lyney flops down onto his bed dramatically, staring up at the ceiling like there’s some grand revelation awaiting him among the crown molding. Rosseland startles, abandoning its dutiful position as Lyney’s personal hat-warmer to pounce on his stomach, ensuring—in a spectacular feat of feline acrobatics—that no rib is spared in the process.

“No, it’s not necessary,” Lynette answers for him, while Lyney’s too busy groaning, clutching his stomach, and generally regretting his life choices. “But this is Lyney we’re talking about.”

“Ahh… okay. I understand the problem now...”

“I’m right here!” Lyney says, pushing himself up. “And don’t you two start. I made a promise.”

“Whose fault is that?” Lynette says pointedly.

“I know you said you were going alone, but if you order me to—”

“Freminet,” Lyney interrupts. “I’m not ordering you to do anything. I don’t want either of you stepping foot in that place again.”

Lyney makes a face. “At least not until he gives me permission for the show,” he adds sourly.

Lynette arches a brow, mouth partially hidden by her teacup. “And if he doesn’t? What happens to your promise, then?”

Well, in a perfect world, Lyney thinks he would just crawl into bed, curl in a ball, and forget all about infuriating Dukes and poorly-thought-out promises. Unfortunately, life is much more of a shit show, and somehow, he always manages to fall ass-first into being named ringleader. 

“He will,” Lyney says firmly.

Freminet hugs Pers a little tighter. “But… what if he doesn’t?” 

“I’ll convince him.”

Counted the days, waited all year

The Fortress of Meropide is, perhaps, one of Lyney’s least favorite places in all of Fontaine. 

Top three at least, right up there with the old Leferver mansion and that one narrow pipe in the sewers of Fleuve Cendre that he’s had to use as an emergency escape route four too many times.

“That’s the last of the forms. You’re all checked in.”

Monglane motions for Estienne to escort him, smiling tiredly as Lyney waves goodbye. She’s one of the people he’s doing this for. Not a prisoner, not a resident here. Just an overworked receptionist, cold at first, but only because her job so often demands it. 

Lyney looks around, catching familiar faces: Camden trying to act like he’s not nodding off, Galvana dutifully patrolling. Somewhere in the dorms, her twin sister Galvaryet will be lamenting about the last time they were able to go on vacation. There’s Wolsey and Bran working the cafeteria and Darcy waving to him, a bright smile on his face. 

Which is to say, maybe Meropide isn’t all bad. Lyney just doesn’t like the smell of rust and mildew, or the damp, chilly air. And he certainly has no love for the upper management.

In front of him loom the large metal doors to Wriothesley’s office, and above them: Cerberus stands eternal guard, a fitting symbol for the hell that awaits him.

“You can go in,” Estienne says kindly, stopping at the door. “He’s expecting you.”

The hinges creak ominously as Lyney pushes his way in, each step echoing his ascent, signaling his arrival. There are one too many memories here, an incident he’d rather not recall. Lyney keeps his eyes firmly on the stairs, forcing one foot in front of the other. 

“Ahh, Mr. Lyney,” Wriothesley says as he hits the top of the stairs. “Right on time.”

Wriothesley is sitting at the couch on the far side of his office, pouring himself a cup of tea. There’s a second, empty cup across from him, along with an assortment of other teas for Lyney to choose from.  

This is the part Lyney has thought about—in Lynette’s apt words—privately, at length, in great detail, with no shortage of imagination. 

He’ll need to pull out all of the stops to convince him. Play nice, feign every insouciant pleasantry, make this worth Wriothesley’s time. Wriothesley is the type of man to be swayed by rational, well articulated reasoning. Lyney will explain himself calmly, will lay out his entire plan without bringing up his past. Emotional appeals should be a last, desperate resort. 

“Well, I wouldn’t dream of making you wait, Your Grace,” Lyney says, bowing low. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

Wriothesley sets the teapot down, giving Lyney a skeptical look. 

“Uh-huh… I’ll admit I was surprised by the request.”

The gramophone on his desk plays an unfamiliar tune, something melancholic that Lyney has never heard before. He doesn’t remember there being music, last time, doesn’t remember much past the seething anger, the loss of control, the anesthesia dulling all of his senses. 

Lyney’s lips curl. He hopes it looks more like a smile than a grimace. 

“Were you? Is it so unheard of for former prisoners to pay you a visit?”

Wriothesley exhales sharply, gesturing to the seat across from him. 

In the span of a breath, Lyney’s eyes flicker to it, and then, to the seat beside him. When negotiating, it’s best to sit directly next to someone. It instills a sense of cooperation, lends to the idea that you’re working toward the same goals. 

Lyney rounds the table, forgoing the comfort of distance, resolutely sinking down onto the cushion next to him. It’s worth it, if only to see the way Wriothesley’s eyes widen, the momentary show of surprise. 

“The Fortress of Meropide isn’t a traditional prison,” Lyney says lightly, reaching for the second, empty cup. It’s an objective truth, something they can both agree on in order to open the negotiation on a positive note. 

Wriothesley recovers from his momentary shock, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea and nodding.

“No, it is not,” he agrees.

Good.

“You know better than anyone of the residents here,” Lyney continues, holding his cup out. “Some of them are employees. Some are free to go. Though, it’s a difficult thing: reacclimating to the overworld. And so, you’ve allowed them to stay. Others are still serving their sentences, but they’re not criminals. They’re simply victims of circumstance, of poverty, in many cases.”

Wriothesley raises a brow, pouring tea into Lyney’s outstretched cup. “True on all counts. Is there a point to this, Mr. Lyney?”

Lyney smiles sweetly, leaning back on the couch, crossing his legs.

“Would it not boost morale to do something nice for them? And are they not deserving of it after so many years of loyal service and good behavior?”

He eyes Lyney warily. Wriothesley has stirred his tea a total of seventeen times so far, not that anyone’s counting. Lyney doesn’t care enough to pay attention, and Wriothesley is much too busy trying to determine if this is some sort of trick.

“I don’t know that I understand what you’re suggesting, Mr. Lyney. Negotiations tend to be much simpler when both parties speak plainly.”

Lyney takes a sip of his tea, finding rather annoyingly, that it’s an exquisite blend, perfect for this cold, winter weather. 

“I’d like your permission to host a Christmas celebration for the residents here,” he says, holding the cup in his lap. “A small gift shop, all proceeds going to the Fortress, of course. A station to teach gift wrapping and ornament making. Baked goods, a tree. And, to close out the festivities: a magic show.”

Wriothesley is silent a moment, mulling over Lyney’s proposal in his mind. Next, he’s going to ask what Lyney expects in return, the answer to which is entirely selfish and much too personal to explain. Lyney hopes he can get by without explaining himself, though logic would dictate otherwise. 

“And what, pray tell, do you get out of this?”

“Me? Nothing,” Lyney says, all feigned nonchalance.

“Nice try,” Wriothesley says, expectedly. “But nothing in life is free. Am I supposed to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

This is the part where negotiations deteriorate. 

Were Wriothesley someone more gullible, were he less adept at critical thinking, he might take the offer at face value. Except, any man who would take Lyney’s word without a second thought would never have been smart enough to pull off the kind of stunt Wriothesley had back then.

Lyney shrugs, takes another sip of tea, sets it back down gently. “Christmas is a time for giving.”

“Christmas is no more a time for giving than it is a time for criminal activity. The Fortress is a prison, not a daycare, and the residents here understand that.”

“Publicity, then. I’m a showman; I live for the applause.”

Wriothesley shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. You get plenty of attention topside. No need to go through all the effort.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Your Grace?” Lyney says, brow arched.

He scoffs. “Might I remind you that I’ve seen you work. You had the other prisoners eating out of your palm. It’s no grand leap to say you’re popular with the masses.”

Lyney feels a small, inescapable spark of pride at the compliment. There’s always something about being noticed, about someone like Wriothesley being forced to admit that Lyney is good at what he does. Not just the tricks and the sleight of hand, but the planning, the theatrics, the art of loquacious seduction. 

Though, this is no time to let the conversation derail. Flattery will get Wriothesley nowhere, and Lyney still needs that ‘yes’. 

“While I appreciate the high praise, that’s neither here nor there. I’m certainly not suggesting we reward those who are undeserving. Make a list of exceptions, and we’ll ensure they stay locked up during the festivities.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “We? My, my, I was unaware that the Great Magician Lyney had joined my employ.”

“Well, how could I be incentivized to join your staff when they aren’t allowed to celebrate—”

“Thank you, Mr. Lyney,” Wriothesley says, abruptly standing. “This has been a riveting visit, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“They’ve never had a proper Christmas!” Lyney blurts out, to Wriothesley’s surprise as well as his own. 

Wriothesley freezes, one step past the coffee table. His gramophone crackles with the changing song, another tune Lyney’s never heard. Back at the hotel, Lyney always brings out the Christmas spincrystals entirely too early in the year, annoys his siblings by dancing and singing along, decks the halls weeks before what is considered appropriate. 

The realization—as abrupt as his outburst—strikes him now. The festive decorations in the Court of Fontaine, the lights and bells and tinsel in every shop window, the carols that are now socially acceptable to play. In contrast, the gloomy atmosphere of the Fortress, the tired guards, the solemn songs that fill his office. 

Perhaps nothing Lyney could argue will convince Wriothesley. Not because Lyney is a Fatuus. Not because this is a prison or because Wriothesley doesn’t agree with what he’s saying. But because, perhaps…

Wriothesley hates Christmas. 

Shit. 

This wasn’t Lyney’s plan, to get emotional, to bring up a modicum of his traumatic upbringing. Especially not when he’s fighting a losing battle. But this is an opening, one last chance to convince him. Lyney has fought far more formidable opponents than the Duke of Meropide. He doesn’t intend to back down, now.

“I know what that’s like,” Lyney says, forcing the truth through his teeth. “I know what it is to go without, and I know the magic a real Christmas can bring. I can’t stand that there are people in Fontaine who have never had one and maybe never will. So, I made a promise to them that I’d bring Christmas here. Maybe that was stupid or misguided or overly-idealistic. But I have to try. For Monglane, for Galvana and Estienne. For Camden and Darcy…”

Lyney takes a breath. Emotional appeals should always be a last, desperate attempt. Right now, Lyney feels pretty desperate.

“…For Sigewinne.”

Wriothesley crosses his arms, frowns down at him, exhales long and slow.

“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t fight fair, Mr. Lyney?”

The snow’s coming down, I’m watching it fall

Lyney hates the cold.

It reminds him of icicle fingers, sore throats and runny noses. Of cups of snow warmed over a small fire, pretending they’re mugs of rich cocoa piled high with marshmallows. It reminds him of being huddled close to his sister, wondering, privately, if they’ll make it through the night, if there will be food to find in the morning. 

But more than that, at this time of year, it reminds him of gazing forlornly through frosted windows, watching from a distance the gifts and treats and celebrations shared between families. It reminds him of why he’s doing this.

Lyney pushes into the well-lit bakery, a bastion of warmth in the dead of winter. 

“Lyney!” The shopkeeper says, setting down a rolling pin and wiping her hands on her apron.

“Hello, Victoire,” he says, blowing warm air into his hands. 

“You must be freezing! Give me a second, I’ll grab you a cup of coffee.”

She’s a short woman a little older than he is, with kind eyes and thick, dark hair pulled into a neat plait. Lyney has done business with her shop on many occasions, lauding her skills as a baker and her reliability. There’s no one else he’d trust to supply his endeavors.

“No Freminet, this time? I feel bad about what happened last time,” she says, grabbing a mug from under the counter. 

Lyney laughs. “It’s not your fault. The shop was busy; he gets nervous.”

“Still. I didn’t mean to send him running. So, what’ll be the order this time? Another Christmas party at the hotel?”

Lyney nods, handing her the list. “And then some. Think you’ll have enough stock?”

She whistles low, scanning it with wide eyes. “I’ll have to check in the back. If anything I can stop by the Hotel Debord to see if Sanguinetti has extras. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m throwing a Christmas party for someone who doesn’t want one,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Victoire’s laugh fills the small shop, warm as a fire.

“That sounds like you,” she says, setting down the list to pour him a steaming cup. “Is it really worth all the effort, though?”

Lyney sits on the edge of the counter, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Technically, there’s only one person against the celebration. Can you imagine that? Hating Christmas?”

Victoire has already disappeared into the back with the list in hand, rummaging around her stock. “Well, to tell you the truth,” she calls, voice muffled. “I also get a little blue around the holidays. I wouldn’t call it hatred, more a lack of cheer.”

Lyney frowns, leaning over the counter to catch sight of her. “I didn’t know that about you. You always seem so happy…”

She rounds the corner carrying a large sack of flour. 

“I’ve customers to make happy, orders to fulfill. Being a Grinch doesn't pay the bills. But, it’s no matter. What I’m trying to say is that if someone has an aversion to something, it’s usually with good reason.”

Now, Lyney thinks he can see the cracks, the fatigue, the hint of sadness in her smile. It does something painful to his chest, makes him wonder what her good reason is, makes him want to show her the true magic of Christmas, the way he’s showing the Fortress.

“Stop that, you,” she chides. “I can see the wheels in that head turning. Christmas just brings up the past is all, lost loved ones, the like. Gets a little lonely I suppose, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Hey,” Lyney says, an idea forming. “You should come to the hotel! Christmas Day, you should join us.”

She laughs, setting the flour down with a huff. “That’s kind of you, but I couldn’t intrude.”

“Nonsense! The more the merrier.”

“I really have so much work to do—”

“On Christmas?”

“And there’s my cat to feed—”

“We love cats! Bring it with you.”

“I don’t want to be a bother—”

Lyney grins, pulling the ultimate ace from his sleeve, the way he’d used Sigewinne against Wriothesley. 

“You owe Freminet.”

Victoire snaps her mouth closed, crossing her arms with a pout.

“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t fight fair, Mr. Lyney?”

Lyney freezes. It’s the reminder of a metal office, a prison deep below the water, an enigmatic Duke drinking tea to sad music.

‘If someone has an aversion to something, it’s usually with good reason.’

He wonders, distantly, what Wriothesley’s reason could be. 

“Once or twice,” Lyney says.

Deck the halls 

Wriothesley had given him a long list of rules.

All items brought into the Fortress must be checked by guards. Gift wrapping and ornament making are not to involve scissors or other sharp objects. Decorations should not obscure surveillance ports. Festivities are not to interfere with work schedules in the production zone. Dangerous prisoners stay in the lower levels for the extent of the celebration. And last, the magic show will happen on Christmas Eve. Lyney is to be cleared out by Christmas Day. 

It’s all the same to Lyney. Better, in fact. He’s not particularly hindered by any of the rules, and the schedule will allow him to spend Christmas Day at the hotel with Victoire and all of his siblings. What’s more, he’s grateful that he won’t have to come face to face with Jemma or Lorenzo or a number of others on bad terms with the Fatui.

This does, however, involve strict oversight by the Duke himself, who had insisted he be involved in all stages of the planning and organization. 

Fair? 

Yes. 

Ideal? 

No.

“Explain to me again why we’re not allowed to help?”

Lyney frowns at his sister. Well, he tries to. She can’t really see his face over the rolls of wrapping paper in his arms, so he makes do by huffing loudly. 

“I told you, I don’t want either of you back in that place until absolutely necessary. We can rehearse for the show here at the hotel. I’ll take care of the setup.”

Lynette crosses her arms. Probably.

“You’re doing it again, brother.”

“Doing what?” He asks innocently, trying to catch a roll of paper that slips out of his arms, dropping five more in the process. 

This time, he can see her raise an unimpressed brow. 

“Putting everything on yourself,” she says, shortly. “You may think you can handle it right now, but soon enough you’ll be skipping meals and avoiding sleep.”

“But I’m not doing it myself,” he says. “His Grace has insisted on being involved, which is why I need to get these supplies to the Fortress. His no scissors rule dictates that we cut the sheets of paper beforehand.”

“So, you’re actually going to let him help?”

Lyney shrugs. “My compliance will be nothing if not malicious. If he insists on being involved, then I fully plan on putting him to work.”

Lynette sinks down into her favorite chair, making a cup of tea appear in her hand. 

“Fine. But if I sense you overworking yourself, I will be forced to tell Father.”

Lyney’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His sister answers with a look that tells him she absolutely would dare. 

“Fine,” he groans. “Now, while I’m gone, please don’t touch the boiler, or the water pump, or the automatic feeder, or the vacuum cleaner— you know what? You can touch the vacuum cleaner, that’ll keep Freminet busy.”

“Power saving mode it is, then,” she says. “Unless you need help carrying these supplies to the Fortress. Three boxes may be too much for one person.”

“Three?” Lyney asks incredulously, managing to retrieve the rolls he’d dropped. “There are nine more in Freminet’s room.”

Wrap the gifts with all your love and care

“Are you really sure this is… necessary?” Wriothesley asks, eyes scanning the supplies that now take up half of his office.

Lyney huffs a lock of hair out of his eyes as he hits the top of the stairs, the final box in hand.

“Magicians aren’t really known for doing things by half-measures. Besides, there’s no backing out, now.”

“Right…” Wriothesley says, crossing his arms, radiating his annoyance with the muscle in his jaw, the hard line of his shoulders. 

There’s a new song playing on his gramophone. It’s not as sad as the first, but still depressing as the abyss. Lyney walks over to the tallest box with its many rolls of paper, sliding one out and pointing at him. 

“You know, music is a big part of the Holiday season.”

Wriothesley’s look sours further. “You’ve already done well enough to test my patience, Mr. Lyney. Best not press your luck.”

Lyney tilts his head. “Just one little carol thrown into the rotation?”

”Absolutely not.”

“What a shame…” Lyney sighs. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

Wriothesley shifts on his feet as Lyney retrieves a pair of scissors from his magic pocket. It’s recognizable for what it is: instincts activating, a fight-or-fight response, Lyney would call it, because he can’t imagine Wriothesley has ever fled from anything in his life. 

“Relax. These,” Lyney says casually, lifting the scissors and paper. “Are for you.”

Wriothesley looks as if he’s staring at some sort of foreign weapon, new and dangerous. Lyney may think it understandable, were he not directing his mystified look at the wrapping paper, rather than the scissors. 

“For what reason?” Wriothesley asks, tone measured.

“You made it clear that the prisoners were not to be given cutting tools, Your Grace. You also made it exceedingly clear that you were to be involved in all stages of the process. Now, how did you put it? Right. It’s no grand leap to say the paper and ribbon should be cut beforehand, and that you’re willing to help with the endeavor.”

Lyney punctuates it by tossing them both to him, stifling a laugh when Wriothesley swiftly moves to catch them. For himself, Lyney chooses the burgundy argyle paper that closely matches the inside of his coat. There’s a second pair of scissors on him—and a third, not that Wriothesley needs to know. Maybe a fourth since he always seems to misplace them. He retrieves a pair and settles on the floor, keeping his distance from Wriothesley who has now taken over the job of questioning life choices. 

Let’s see… I’ll have to cut each sheet big enough to wrap the largest gift in the shop, which will probably be a pair of boots or maybe a thick blanket. Then, I’ll cut some smaller pieces for items like hats and playing cards. Or should I cut them all the same size? I can always teach them how to make gift bags out of the paper too. And then there’s—

Lyney looks up and immediately loses all train of thought.

“What are you doing?” He asks, craning his neck. 

“Cutting sheets like you asked.”

“No, no! That’s much too small! What are we wrapping? A single bag of tea?”

Wriothesley lowers his scissors, leveling him with a flat look. “Is this your punishment?”

”What are you talking—?”

“I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to determine exactly what it is you’re getting out of this,” Wriothesley cuts him off. “This is punishment for what happened when you were a resident here. Toe the line of my patience, extract a facsimile of retribution for the whole ordeal. That your plan?”

Lyney blinks, taken aback. First, because he really should have thought about that, and second, because Wriothesley hates all of this so much more than Lyney could have imagined.

“Your Grace,” Lyney says, slowly. “I’m insulted that you would ever consider this a punishment, much less one equivalent to kidnapping my siblings and leading me to believe they were in danger. I understand that nothing I say will ever convince you of why I’m here, but let us get one thing straight: you clearly care for Sigewinne more than you detest Christmas. Meaning that—for the next week—you are going to have to work with me.”

Wriothesley inclines his head, considering Lyney’s sharp words. 

“Fine,” he says. “But if I suspect—”

“You already suspect. Question what you observe, not what your biases are telling you.”

“Bold advice coming from a magician. Isn’t that how you pull one over on your audience?”

“That’s not the kind of magic I promised to bring here.”

Wriothesley exhales sharply. “Right, you’re playing Santa. Tell me, are all Fatui such bleeding hearts?”

“No, you see, I’m a special case.”

“A true altruist?”

Lyney locks eyes with him. “A masochist.”

It’s unexpected, Wriothesley’s laugh. It seems to catch both of them by surprise, the way Lyney’s outburst had done only a few days ago. Wriothesley clears his throat, looks down at the too-small sheet of paper in front of him, then back up to Lyney.

“Show me,” he says, not bothering to explain further.

Lyney’s brows furrow. “How to cut paper?” 

“No.” Wriothesley shakes his head. “How to wrap a gift. I do believe I made my stance clear. Anything you’re going to be relaying to the prisoners should first go through me. I have to make sure you’re not secretly teaching them to make weaponry.”

Lyney’s lips twitch. “What? Afraid of a paper cut?”

“As if your cards have never drawn blood.”

“Touché, dear Duke. Touché.”

Lyney’s eyes scan the room, looking for a box to use. He hops up from the floor and plucks two boxes of tea from Wriothesley’s table, dropping one in front of him and sitting back down with the other. 

“We’re doing this on the floor?” Wriothesley asks.

Lyney nods. “Everything’s better on the floor,” he says with a wink. 

Wriothesley does his best not to roll his eyes, but Lyney can tell it’s a very near thing. 

“First, place the gift in the center of the paper, top down like so,” Lyney says. “Wrap this side around, make sure to pull it tightly and run your fingers along the edge to get a nice crease. We can secure it with tape before doing the other side. Yes, just like that!”

Lyney finishes taping it and turns the box over. “Now, take these ends and fold them in like this. Again, you’ll want nice crisp folds. Secure them both with tape. See how I’m then bringing these ends in? If you’ve cut the paper evenly, they should be symmetrical.”

Lyney turns the other side to Wriothesley and repeats all of it, watching as Wriothesley slowly follows along with his own box. 

“There, all wrapped. Next it’s time for ribbon and a bow, I have a box around here somewhere with some spools of—”

“What about the extra fold,” Wriothesley interrupts, causing Lyney to flinch. 

Damnit, he wasn’t supposed to notice.

“Come again?” Lyney asks innocently.

“On one side of your package, there’s a small, asymmetric fold that you never instructed me to do.”

Lyney’s smile flickers. “Is there? Silly me, it must have been a mistake.”

Wriothesley narrows his eyes. “Is this another trick of yours? Some kind of code to pass on?”

“I assure you it was only—”

Wriothesley drops the roll of tape. “That’s it. We’re done here. I won’t allow you to communicate with the prisoners when it’s clear you’re trying to—”

“Wait! I’ll explain!”

Lyney weighs his options in his mind. Keep feigning ignorance and ruin Christmas in Meropide? Or once again crack open his trauma and offer the truth? It’s not the worst thing he could admit. And it’s not exactly a secret. Lynette knows why he adds some small imperfection to all of his wrapped gifts. No one else has ever noticed, much less bothered to point it out.

“The person who taught me how to wrap gifts… he was a perfectionist. Every cut, every fold had to be planned and measured. In his world, there was no room for mistakes…”

Wriothesley is looking at him intently, judging every word, weighing it for truth. Lyney wishes he could lie about it, wishes he could hold onto every one of his cards, but there are some things that are more important to him than keeping them close to his chest.

“If I wrap gifts perfectly, it just… feels like I’m giving him what he wants. This little fold is a last fuck you to a man who never deserved my obedience.”

Lyney turns the package over, looking Wriothesley in the eye. 

“Don’t worry. When I teach them how to wrap, I’ll do it correctly. No passing codes. No tricks.”

Wriothesley is quiet for a long moment, staring at him across the floor. And then, after what feels like an eternity, he silently returns to the box in front of him, making a small, asymmetric fold in the paper.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, carefully securing it with tape, setting it next to Lyney’s own imperfect gift. “I believe I understand.”

Find it hard to sleep tonight 

That night, Lyney dreams of wrapping paper and little folds and of a sad song playing in a sad office.

(He also dreams about a sad man drinking tea, those intense eyes, that inscrutable mind, but that’s neither here nor there.)

‘If someone has an aversion to something, it’s usually with good reason.’

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, thoughts racing, unable to go back to sleep.

‘I believe I understand.’

What could his good reason be?

Chapter Text

I’m just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe

“This one is pretty! What’s it called?”

Lyney moves the pot of flowers closer to her. “These are poinsettias. They symbolize holiday cheer. I don’t typically keep them around the hotel, though, because they can be toxic to small animals. But, they should be fine down here.”

Sigewinne hums, poking one of the leaves before turning to the next plant.

“And this one?”

“Holly. This one is definitely toxic, so don’t go putting it in one of your milkshakes, okay?”

Sigewinne pushes herself up on her tiptoes to see more. “What else do you have?”

“Mostly just those two. Although,” he says, grabbing one last plant. “This is mistletoe. I didn't bring much of it, because His Grace probably won’t approve.”

She tilts her head, regarding the plant warily. “Why not?”

“Because of the holiday tradition.” Lyney leans in and drops his voice, handing her the spring of mistletoe. “You hang this somewhere, and any two people passing under it have to stop and kiss.”

Sigewinne’s eyes widen. “A magical plant that forces you to kiss?” She asks with wonder.

Lyney laughs, shaking his head and turning to grab more of it. “No, no. Nothing like that, it’s just—”

He turns around, realizing—with equal parts surprise and horror—that she’s run off, taking the mistletoe with her.

“Wait! It’s poisonous—” He calls after her, wincing. 

“What’s poisonous?”

Lyney pales, spinning on his heel to find Wriothesley standing there, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Nothing!” He says, quickly hiding the mistletoe behind his back. “Just… don’t drink any of the milkshakes Sigewinne gives you for the foreseeable future, okay?”

Wriothesley gives him an unimpressed look, eyes sliding over all of the foliage. “The poinsettias can stay. The holly goes. And get that mistletoe out of my Fortress. Got it?”

Lyney deflates. “Feeling extra jolly today, I see,” he sighs.

Wriothesley’s expression flattens even further. “Ho ho ho.”

Lyney bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, to keep Wriothesley from thinking he’s funny or anything absurd like that. 

It would be a lie (not that Lyney is above lying or anything) to say that things hadn’t changed after the wrapping paper incident. Call Lyney soft, or a bleeding heart, or whatever other colorful way to say he’s out of his mind. But, he’d taken one look at Wriothesley across that office, with their matching imperfect gifts and the sad background music, and seen something. Just like with Victoire, just like he’s seen in his own reflection. 

Wriothesley has a reason to hate Christmas.

Lyney intends to find out why. 

“What about a compromise, then, my dear Duke? The mistletoe goes, but the holly stays.”

“The mistletoe goes,” Wriothesley says, after a moment’s consideration. “Some of the holly stays. You hang it out of reach here in the Administrative area where I can monitor it.”

“Deal.”

Wriothesley nods, turning to walk away.

Hmm… that won’t do.

Lyney tosses the mistletoe aside, following after him toward the lift. “By the way. Where do you want the tree?”

Wriothesley’s pace slows. “Does it matter?”

Lyney, personally offended on several different levels, gives him an appalled look. “Of course it matters! The tree is the most important part! Once I know what kind of space I’m working with, I can go to the market and buy one.”

“The market?” Wriothesley says, stopping altogether. “Why waste mora on a tree when you can go to the hillside and chop one down yourself?”

Lyney looks at Wriothesley in the eyes, then down to his own arms, then pointedly back up to Wriothesley. 

Wriothesley snorts.

“Right,” he says, calling the lift. “And how were you planning on getting the tree down here, Mr. Lyney? You barely managed to carry all of those boxes of yours.”

“About that…” Lyney says, offering him a sweet smile that would bring most men to their knees. Knowing Wriothesley, it’ll only annoy him. “May I please borrow a few of your guards to help? I promise it won’t take very long.”

Wriothesley blinks down at him. Definitely annoyed, then.

“Is that a yes?”

The lift opens, and Wriothesley steps inside, turning back toward him before the door slides shut. 

“Midnight, Mr. Lyney. Don’t be late.”

Come and trim my Christmas tree

“You came.”

Lyney stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets, keeping a steady thrum of pyro flowing through his body to stay warm. “You asked,” he answers. 

The first flurries have only now begun to drift in from Snezhnaya, heralding a larger storm in the coming days. But even now, with a lack of snow, the wind bites through his coat, settles deep into his skin. Wriothesley had better have a damn good reason for calling him here, where the torches of the Opera Epiclese afford neither adequate heat nor light.

Wriothesley huffs, shifting on his heels. He’s holding something that Lyney can’t make out, half hidden behind one leg. 

“I wasn’t exactly asking, sweetheart.”

He takes a step forward, shakes his head a little like he also can’t believe he dragged them both out here at this hour. 

“I am a very busy man,” Wriothesley continues. “There’s paperwork to do, inventory to go over, files that need organizing, forms that need signatures. Tonight, I had planned to finalize work schedules for the holiday and approve next week’s cafeteria menu.”

Lyney narrows his eyes, taking a page from Wriothesley’s own book. 

“I don’t know that I understand what you’re getting at, Your Grace. Conversations tend to be much simpler when both parties speak plainly.”

Wriothesley breathes what could be a laugh, pulling from behind him a long, sturdy looking axe.

“I could be doing a great many things more pressing than tree hunting. But, here we are.”

It’s becoming a habit, it seems, that Wriothesley can manage to surprise him. Lyney’s eyes widen a fraction, and he feels—against his will—warmth of a new kind. The same warmth he felt last week, sitting on the floor of Wriothesley’s office. The same familiar warmth he felt that first real Christmas, next to a tiny, poorly decorated tree.

“Is it really so shocking that I’d help you?” Wriothesley asks. 

Lyney recovers quickly, snapped out of his shock by a biting gust of wind. 

“While I do appreciate the offer, why are we doing this in the middle of the night when it’s colder than the abyss out?”

Wriothesley shakes his head, walking past him, boots heavy against the stone bridge. 

“Daytime means more eyes. I didn’t exactly request a foresting permit from our esteemed Iudex for this.”

Lyney laughs into his hands, rubbing them together as he follows after him. “The Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, breaking the law of the land to save a few mora. What kind of example does this set?”

Wriothesley snorts. “Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you, little Fatuus. And besides, what Neuvillette doesn’t know won’t land me back in court.”

“Fair point well made,” Lyney says, walking quickly to keep up with Wriothesley’s long stride. They travel past the Opera Epiclese, heading northeast into the Erinnyes Forest. 

“I say we go deeper,” Wriothesley says, the axe slung over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want anyone noticing a tree is missing, would we?”

Lyney nods, suppressing a shiver. The snow has begun to stick to the landscape, a thin white blanket that melts under each of Lyney’s footsteps. His warm breath hangs visible in the air, unlike Wriothesley’s, a testament to their contrasting body temperatures, the way their Visions affect them both.

”What about up there?” Lyney asks, pointing to a slope near the Weeping Willow of the Lake. 

There’s a grand, towering cypress standing proud at the peak, one that could sit in the Administrative area and reach all the way to the dorm level. But, even if it is too lofty a goal, there are several more smaller trees along the way, more modest, easier to transport. 

“No half-measures was right,” Wriothesley grumbles, heading that way. 

“I didn’t say we had to go for that one. I am reasonable, you know? Just pick whichever one you think you have a chance of cutting down.”

Wriothesley laughs under his breath. “I can cut that one down.”

Lyney sneezes into his sleeve, giving him an accusing look. “I don’t plan on being out here all night.”

”Neither do I.”

Despite his seeming exasperation, Wriothesley heads straight to the peak, passing countless moderately sized trees on the way. Lyney follows behind him, elemental energy flagging after such prolonged use. It’s getting colder out, windier and wetter the closer they get to the lake, and Wriothesley doesn’t show any signs of stopping each time Lyney points out a different tree.

”What about this one?” Lyney tries, for maybe the fifth time. “It’s such a great tree. Wouldn’t it be perfect in the Fortress?”

Wriothesley hums, taking another step, then another, pace unchanging.

“Or this one! Yes, I think this one will do nicely—”

“Nope,” Wriothesley says, resolutely.

“Now I’m the one being punished…” Lyney groans.

Wriothesley, only stopping now that they’re standing in front of a trunk that’s thicker than Lyney’s entire body, pulls the axe from his shoulder. 

“You begged me to let you host Christmas at my prison, dragged a dozen boxes of unnecessary decorations into my office, multiple species of poisonous plants in toe, forced me to cut through Focalor knows how many rolls of paper.” Wriothesley pauses to give him a sidelong glance. “Why back down now? Tell me you don’t want this tree, and I’ll choose another one. But, I expect you to look me in the eyes when you lie to me.”

Lyney tilts his head to look up at it, then turns to the other trees around them, then looks back to it, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. 

“I…” he says, avoiding eye contact all together. “Don’t always lie.”

Wriothesley answers with a low laugh, hefting the axe into the air, running a hand over the blade to coat it in a thick layer of jagged ice. “That’s what I thought.”

Before Lyney can think to retort or complain or ask how long it will surely take, Wriothesley swings the axe. It slices through the air with a whistle, hits the tree, and with the sound of an exploding energy core, blasts a path clean through the trunk.

“Timber,” Wriothesley says casually, tugging Lyney out of the way and into his side.

Lyney is struck, somewhere between watching the giant tree fall and registering the sheer power of his swing, by the fact that Wriothesley is warm. Not pyro heated, not hot enough to melt the snow around them, but comfortable enough that Lyney is loath to pull away.

“You’re cold,” Wriothesley says, looking down at him as the tree hits the ground. “You used up too much of your energy, and now it seems to be backfiring.”

Lyney frowns and looks away, hoping Wriothesley doesn’t misinterpret the redness of his cheeks. Lyney is cold is all. There’s no other reason. 

“Did not,” he lies. 

Wriothesley raises a brow. “Oh?” He teases. 

He brings one of his hands—scarred, powerful, capable of felling a tree in one swing—up to Lyney’s hair, softly brushing a strand out of his eyes. 

“Then why is the snow sticking to your hair?”

“Halt!” A voice rings out from somewhere to the north. “No illegal cutting without a permit!”

Their eyes widen in unison.

Fuck.

Wriothesley releases him, shoving his axe into Lyney’s arms and looking down the slope. 

“I’ve got an idea, but you’re not gonna like it.”

Lyney thinks about the risk of trusting Wriothesley, and then promptly weighs it against the risk of causing trouble for Father by getting arrested. It’s an easy decision to make. 

“I don’t have to like it,” he says.

The air around them crackles with Cryo energy, temperature plummeting. Lyney’s next breath leaves him like a thick fog, his fingers numbing, Pyro vision futilely pushing back in response. 

Wriothesley balls his hands into fists, rolls his shoulders, throws two punches toward the ground in quick succession. The slope beneath them freezes over in a single smooth sheet of ice. The tree, half lying on the frozen ground, begins to slide, and Lyney realizes Wriothesley’s mad plan in an instant.

“On second thought…” Lyney says, taking a step back.

Wriothesley clicks his tongue, grabbing hold of him by the waist and dragging him close.

“Hold on!”

He yanks Lyney onto the ice with him, sliding down, their speed increasing quickly. Lyney’s body is far too cold to melt the ice beneath them, so he clings to Wriothesley and the axe and focuses what little Pyro energy he can downward. It slicks their path down the slope, eases the slide. Lyney hasn’t been sledding since he was a child, but he’s reminded of it now, as they rocket away from the Gardes. 

Wriothesley makes a noise, his shoulders shaking, and it takes all of a moment for Lyney to realize he’s laughing. Not the low, sarcastic laughs he’s given Lyney before, but loud, bold, genuine, contagious.

They slide down the hill and past it, frigid wind in their hair, following behind their tree, and Lyney finds himself laughing too. Despite the chase and the cold and the company and the late hour that marches on. He clings to Wriothesley and laughs at the absurdity of it all, laughs along with Wriothesley whose cheeks are red and whose eyes practically glow with mirth. 

This is joy. The spirit of Christmas, the feeling Lyney chases year after year. And he looks up at Wriothesley, whose arm is wrapped so firmly around him, who laughs despite hating this, who—

“Watch out!” Wriothesley says.

Their ice slide abruptly ends, sending them both tumbling into a snow drift that has piled up over the past hour. It’s Wriothesley who tugs Lyney out of it, pulls him to his feet, face still glowing with amusement.

“We have to hurry,” Wriothesley says, focusing his remaining elemental energy to his muscles, dragging the tree toward the Opera Epiclese.

Lyney carries the axe, trying to help where he can, between shivering and acting as a lookout. They somehow manage to get it to the lift, realizing with another wave of laughter that it absolutely won’t fit. Wriothesley has to chop it into three pieces. He’ll find a way to put it together again, he says, at Lyney’s pout. 

By the time they’re safely underground, Lyney’s lungs burn from the cold, his muscles aching. But, there’s a giddy excitement in his belly and a smile on his lips, and Wriothesley is bright-eyed and grinning that his insane plan had worked. And they have a tree, a perfect, ridiculous, three-piece tree.

“Tea?” Wriothesley asks, sinking down onto his couch, axe resting against the wall of his office. “I can make some.”

Lyney exhales, sinking down onto the cushion next to him. He’s only now starting to defrost from the whole ordeal, but it’s late, or early depending on how he looks at it. He’ll need to go soon.

“I have an early start. Need to pick up my order from Victoire, and then I have—”

“Victoire the baker?” Wriothesley interrupts.

Lyney stops talking, looking at him, trying to decipher the strange tone in his voice, the hint of surprise.

“The baker, yes… do you know her?”

Wriothesley’s eyes flicker once, and then he looks away, toward a blank spot on the wall. 

“You know,” he says, rather than answering. “The metamorphosis from magician to Santa Clause truly suits you.”

Lyney is silent a moment, wondering why it is Wriothesley doesn’t want to answer. Is this the missing piece of the puzzle? The reason Wriothesley hates Christmas? The reason Victoire is lonely and sad? Are they bitter enemies? Or ex lovers, perhaps? For some reason, the thought stings, sits like lead in Lyney’s gut.

“Does it?” He asks, swallowing down this strange, bitter taste. “Well there’s still time to sit on my lap.”

Wriothesley closes his eyes, tilts his head back.

“Think I might crush you if I…”

Wriothesley opens his eyes and trails off as he catches sight of something on the ceiling. 

“Wriothesley? What is—oh…”

Wriothesley blinks at it, then turns to Lyney with a flat look.

“I assume this is your doing?”

“Wh-what? No! It had to have been Sigewinne, she took off with it earlier, I promise!”

“Mhmm,” he hums, glaring up at the mistletoe. “I believe you.”

It doesn’t sound like he believes him.

“You know I don’t put much stock in any of the Christmas traditions,” Wriothesley says. “They don’t mean much to me. Just a bunch of unimportant things people make up to sell more goods.”

Wriothesley is looking him in the eyes as he says it, so close to him on the couch that their shoulders brush.

“I know… which is why—”

“I wasn’t finished,” Wriothesley says, cutting him off.

Lyney stops. The look on Wriothesley’s face has morphed into something no less strange. Softer, yet inexplicable all the same.

“I don’t care for Christmas traditions,” he says again. “But you do.”

And then, he leans in, placing a single, chaste kiss to Lyney’s forehead.

“Until tomorrow, Mr. Lyney.”

My sister will be suspicious, my brother will be there at the door

“Where have you been?” Lynette asks, as soon as he’s in the door. “We were supposed to rehearse hours ago.”

Lyney jumps. 

“Sister! It’s… planning was… and then there was the set up, and you know how—”

“You smell like him,” she interrupts, nose scrunched. 

Lyney snaps his mouth shut, willing the heat in his cheeks to go away, the memory of Wriothesley’s lips against his skin, the sudden unwelcome desire for him to drop his head lower, kiss Lyney’s lips instead. For them to be breathless and pressed together for a different reason, for it to feel anything like it felt tonight.

“We were tree hunting,” he admits, knowing the futility in lying to her. “It wasn’t exactly legal.”

Lynette narrows her eyes, searching his face. 

“You said you wouldn’t overwork yourself.”

“And I’m not,” he sighs. “I promise, this was just a one time thing. He did all the cutting and most of the carrying and I was really only there for my dashing good looks and witty one-liners.”

It seems enough to appease her… for now, his mind supplies.

“Your Pyro energy’s low. I don’t need elemental sight to tell you that,” she says, handing him a cup of tea and pushing him toward the hearth. “You should rest for a while. And don’t let Father see.”

Lyney nods, accepting it gratefully. “I know. It was just cold.”

“It was or he was?” She asks, brow arched.

Lyney’s cheeks flush scarlet. “Lynette! It isn’t like that…” 

“Isn’t it?” She says pointedly.

Lyney settles onto the couch, looking down at the tea in his lap to avoid her knowing look. “I don’t… it’s just that…”

The fireplace glows with dwindling warmth, crackling comfortably. Lyney gazes into the flames, the dancing embers, blackened wood and ash. 

“Why do you think Wriothesley doesn’t like Christmas?” He asks.

Lynette sits next to him. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What? It was an innocent question!”

“Is anything ever really innocent with you, dear brother?”

Lyney gives her a look, clutching his chest dramatically. 

“You wound me, dear sister.”

Lynette purses her lips. She really has so little patience for his antics these days. 

“Fine. Do… you remember our first Christmas at the Hearth?” He asks, instead.

Lynette’s posture relaxes, her face softening in understanding. She scoots a little closer, rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes.

“Of course I do.”

You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear…

“It is I, your most esteemed customer!” Lyney says brightly, pushing his way into the bakery. 

Victoire laughs. “My most flamboyant customer, maybe.”

It’s a few hours before her shop opens, and much too early for his liking given the late night. But the early pick-up allows him to beat the holiday traffic, shaving valuable time off of his to-do list.

“I’ll take it,” he says, pulling his gloves off and leaning against the counter.

She finishes filling another macaron and lowers the piping bag, giving him a once over. “What’s got you so happy?” She asks.

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

“Hmmm… that’s not it. This is different, something’s changed…”

Lyney thinks back to what’s happened since he was last here, but aside from his dealings with Wriothesley and efforts at the Fortress, there’s really nothing new.

“How so?”

Victoire returns to her work, adjusting her grip on the bag. “You love the holidays, that much is true. But, normally you’re shivering like a stray cat by the time you make it in here. And the Steambird has projected a snowstorm rolling in. I’d have thought you’d be less enthusiastic to be out right now.”

“Well, it’s not really that cold compared to—” Lyney cuts himself off. 

Right, can’t really tell her about last night.

But, the thought does spark another, something more acidic that he doesn’t want to examine. So, what better way to distract himself than to find another loose thread, to pull on it until it unravels?

“Compared to last winter,” he says smoothly. “So… is the order ready?”

She finishes filling the last macaron and wipes her forehead with her sleeve. “All done, now. The humidity was off and the first batch didn’t have feet, so I had to start over. But this is the last of your order.”

Lyney smiles, watching intently for her reaction. “Take your time… the Fortress of Meropide isn’t going anywhere.”

The thing is, Lyney’s learned over the years to read people. Emotion, body language, expression, it's all just another subject to study, a trick to pin down. How else is he to know when his dear sister is scared? When Freminet is happy? When an audience is awed over one of his shows? 

Which is to say, Lyney knows how to observe those subtle gestures: the way Victoire tenses, ever so slightly, the way her lips part, the way the piping bag in her hand flutters with a sudden tremor. 

“Oh,” is all she says. 

Oh? He thinks, raising a brow. 

It doesn’t tell him anything. 

“Is something the matter?” He asks innocently.

“Wh-what? No! It’s nothing,” she says, spinning on her heel and disappearing into the back. 

Lyney tilts his head over the counter. 

“I don’t believe you,” he calls, crossing his arms.

Victoire’s head pops out of the doorway. “Does… does this mean you’ve met J—eh, the Duke?”

Lyney has to force down that strange feeling at the mention of Wriothesley. 

“We’ve… spoken,” he says carefully. “He did have to approve the show, after all.”

This time, she doesn’t run off to the back. She stands there awkwardly in the doorway, fiddling nervously with her apron. 

“Wh-what is he like?” She asks. If she’s trying to sound uninterested, it doesn’t work. 

“He’s…” Lyney stops himself, brows pinching.

It’s strange, in a way, that he’s never bothered to think of how he would describe Wriothesley, given the chance. There are the non-diplomatic answers, the colorful list of adjectives that Lyney could write out on parchment and then burn as a form of catharsis. And there are the things he can’t help but begrudgingly respect. Wriothesley is a good leader. He’s pragmatic, straightforward, just. 

But, then… there’s the Wriothesley’s he’s come to know these past few weeks, the one who jokes with him, who went tree hunting with him, the one whose kiss still prickles at his forehead.

“He’s a complicated man,” Lyney decides after a moment.

Victoire, to his surprise, laughs quietly. “Yes that… sounds like him,” she says.

There’s an unmistakable hint of nostalgia in her voice. 

Oh, Lyney thinks. Oh I know what this feeling is. It coils in him like a snake, venomous, territorial. Lynette would say ‘I told you so’. Lyney would be unable to argue.

“You know him?” Lyney asks, trying to keep the jealousy out of his voice.

She smiles. It’s hard not to see the sadness in it. 

“I never knew my birth parents,” she says, avoiding the question just as Wriothesley had. “I was taken in by foster parents at a very young age. In a way, I had many siblings, just like you.”

She slowly walks back toward the counter, stopping across from him. 

“We had lots of kids come and go. Everything seemed lovely on the surface. But… turns out it wasn’t as picture perfect as it seemed. I had a brother who figured it all out, ran away, came back later to put a stop to it. The whole thing landed him in Meropide.”

Lyney feels a different kind of sinking, a slow realization about her story. Guilt for his jealousy, anger at those who would ever dare prey on children, sympathy for someone whose past so eerily matches his own. 

“I… didn’t know,” he says.

Victoire smiles, reaching across to rest her hand on his. 

“He saved me and the others who were left. Since then, we’ve all gone our separate ways. I don’t think he or anyone else wants the reminder of the things that happened, or those that we’ve lost. But… that’s my biggest regret, that I can’t thank him for what he did.”

Lyney looks at her from across the counter, holding her hand.

“Wriothesley,” he says quietly, the realization hitting him suddenly, like the answer to a question he never thought to ask.

“He’s your brother.”