Archive of Our Own

It’s been a long time since the four of them have gotten together like this — and Felix isn’t even here. 

After everything that happened, Felix has practically become the glue that keeps their friend group and Dimitri together, Sylvain thinks. Right now it’s somehow awkward to stand before the king without Felix there, attempting to converse with this man who is somehow both a dear friend and a stranger. Sylvain curses Felix mentally for getting too caught up in his training (again) to bother to show up on time.

“I hear there’s going to be a massive festival in your honor next week, Your Majesty,” Sylvain says in an attempt to get the ball rolling, while Ingrid stands next to him unhelpfully stiff and Dimitri fidgets. “Everyone thinks it’s a miracle you’re even alive — and you defeated the Empire, no less. Some people are saying the goddess herself must be watching over you.”

“It’s hardly a miracle,” Dimitri says, frowning. “Without all of you —”

“Yeah yeah, power of friendship.” Sylvain waves his hand dismissively. “That’s real selfless and all, Your Majesty, but before we get too off track, ah… what exactly are our obligations for this event?”

Ingrid huffs audibly by his side. “Sylvain, you’re being rude. It’s not as though we’re forced to entertain anyone. Just enjoy the festivities — well, and try not to sully His Majesty’s good name with your needless philandering.”

Of course it would be a criticism of him that gets Ingrid to finally speak up. Sylvain shrugs with feigned innocence, and it is clear from Ingrid's deepening frown she is utterly unconvinced by it. “And here I thought we would all dress in sparkly costumes and accompany the king as his own personal parade.”

“That will not be necessary, Sylvain,” Dimitri says with an exasperated sigh. Sylvain snorts, amused the man had taken such an obvious jest so seriously. “And besides, this celebration is for the continued health and longevity of Faerghus — not for me. I hardly find it necessary to place myself at the center of it.”

The door bangs open then and Felix storms his way into the conference room, dripping sweat and hauling his training armor over his back. “You’re late,” Ingrid says, as though it needs to be said at all. “And you’re… ugh. If you were going to interrupt us, couldn’t you at least have bathed first?”

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Sylvain says with a smirk. “Hey, Felix — how would you feel about dressing up in a sparkly uniform and dancing for His Majesty? Unless you do that enough already these days.”

As to be expected, Felix doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Ingrid, did I miss anything important?”

“Other than our meeting time,” Ingrid seethes, “no. I suppose you haven’t.”

“Felix,” Dimitri tries, “she’s right. You really ought to—”

Felix sets his bag down on the table with a loud clatter, effectively staunching the complaint. “I heard there’s going to be some big party this weekend,” he says with a scoff. “Sounds awful. Where’s the form I can sign to opt out?”

“But Felix, you have to go,” Sylvain cuts in with feigned distress. “It’s in his His Majesty’s honor, and you’re his right hand man.” A pause, then: “Or I guess left hand man, depending—” 

“Sylvain,” Felix interrupts icily. “No.”

Ingrid is giving him a sour look too. Sylvain opts to ignore it. 

“I won’t force any of you to do anything you don’t want to,” Dimitri says, completely not registering what had just left Sylvain’s mouth. Kind of a shame he’s oblivious as ever, Sylvain thinks. That was a line that had deserved a reaction. “I have no specific plans myself, other than interacting with the citizens of Fhirdiad. In truth, the thought of such a crowd is overwhelming, but…” He clears his throat. “R-regardless, do feel free to enjoy the festivities at your leisure.”

Felix makes a noncommittal grunt, and Sylvain turns to look at him. It’s fleeting, but Sylvain can see a flash of embarrassment? — fondness, even? — in Felix’s eyes as he watches Dimitri. 

He should be happy for his friend.

“Will do, Your Majesty,” Sylvain says with a wink, even as Ingrid sighs at him. “You can count on that. Enjoying things at my leisure is my specialty.”

Instead, he feels sick.

It’s been a while since Felix has dressed up for any occasion — after all, there hasn’t been much cause for Faerghus to celebrate before this in the past ten years. Festivals are a bit too showy for his tastes, donning fancy clothes and parading around the city amidst song and dance and other exhausting merriment, but he also knows it would be frowned upon if he disappeared into the training grounds alone all night while everyone else wandered the streets of Fhirdiad stuffing their faces and shaking hands. Specifically it would disappoint Dimitri, which bothers Felix more than he’d care to admit, and it would also leave the newly crowned and still unsteady king alone to deal with crowds of people singing praises he doesn’t feel he deserves. Putting on a few extra frills and setting aside an evening is a small price to pay to keep an eye on him.

Felix’s formal clothes are not that much different from his regular attire save for extra ornamentation. The belt he latches around his waist has a snaking pattern of ornate gold filigree and is a bit stiffer than what he’s used to, but it serves the same purpose, custom made with a loop to sheath his sword against his hip as a personal comfort; Felix can’t help but get antsy if he’s not armed in some manner.

His bottom half is fully clothed and he is in the midst of slipping on a turtleneck undershirt when a too-loud knock gives him pause, and he turns towards the entryway, one arm still hanging loose from his shirt sleeve. “What?” Felix glares at the door.

“Ah, Felix?” It’s Dimitri’s voice, almost timid, and Felix almost feels bad for snapping (but not quite). “My apologies for bothering you. May I come in?”

“Whatever,” he says — and then begrudgingly realizes that might not be enough confirmation for the straightforward Dimitri. “...Yeah.”

The door creaks open slowly, and Felix turns to see Dimitri standing at the door frame, his silhouette consuming the entrance. He’s already fully dressed in a dark blue suit with a matching fur-trimmed cape, both lined with subtle gold pattern that makes Dimitri look less like a hulking warrior and more like a fragile art piece that would sit pretty in a museum. Felix hasn’t seen him wear anything this formal since they were children. His hair is slicked back too, and the strange aesthetic mismatch of what he’s seeing versus what he knows about Dimitri distracts Felix so much he almost doesn’t look down to notice that Dimitri is holding something out to him.

In the king's upturned palm sits a pair of cufflinks, gold and shaped like snarling lions, one paw outstretched on each as though preparing to strike. They look old but regal, Felix thinks, most likely passed down from the late King Lambert over generations of Faerghus royalty. “Those sure are fancy,” Felix says, ignoring the dull thudding of his heart against his chest. “Guess you really are the  King of Lions after all.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says sternly, and proceeds to say exactly what Felix had feared he would. “I want you to wear them.”

He takes one of the lions from Dimitri’s hand, running the pad of his thumb over the rivets of sculpted gold. “I’m not the King of Faerghus,” he mumbles, looking from the carpet to the wall to the ceiling — anywhere but directly at Dimitri. “This is — excessive. They’re yours. Wear them yourself.”

It’s clear Dimitri is struggling with a response; Felix sees a flash of resignation across the other man’s face that hardens into stubbornness. “You are — you are as much a part of me as I am,” Dimitri croaks out, which Felix thinks is perhaps the worst way he ever could have phrased such a sentiment — yet it shakes him nonetheless. “I understand if you find it strange. I hardly wish to make a show of parading you about, as though you’re my — consort. But—”

“I’ll wear them,” Felix says quickly, snatching the other cufflink as a feverish heat begins to swell within him. “Anything to get you to shut up. You’re — you’re embarrassing me.” The confession wracks him with shame, too.

“I’m glad,” Dimitri says quietly. “Ah, that is — glad you agreed. I apologize if I upset you. In truth, I find it difficult to speak in a way that does not embarrass you in some manner.” When Felix glances up, he sees Dimitri is smiling, not the manic grin of a monster but the soft fondness of the person he had always craved. “I am proud to have you by my side, Felix.”

“So you are parading me around,” Felix growls, and the thought gives him… a bit of satisfaction, actually? Well, fuck. 

Dimitri chuckles, wrapping his arms around Felix’s waist and pulling him in from behind. Felix flinches, conditioned to fear the worst whenever Dimitri touches him with those unwieldy limbs of his, but the embrace is gentle, and Felix feels lips press to his jawline, kissing him once with unusual delicacy. “I am a bit anxious about this festival,” Dimitri murmurs against his skin. “My — our people see me as a savior. They will be celebrating my deeds, and I feel I have deceived them somehow. If they knew the extent of what I did during those five years —”

“But they don’t,” Felix interrupts, not wishing to be reminded, either. “It’s not as though you’re expected to formally entertain them. Just show up, shake some hands. Eat, drink, be merry… or whatever.”

Again Dimitri laughs. “Coming from you, those words sound like a dreadful curse.”

“Thanks,” Felix growls. “So are you going to shape up or not? I’m not in the mood to nurse you out of your self-deprecating sadness all night. Isn’t this supposed to be a celebration?”

“Yes, you’re right. Of course.” Dimitri shakes his head. “I should… try to enjoy myself.”

“You’re thinking too much,” Felix insists. “Just go through the motions and deal with it. I’ll be there suffering alongside you, too. Parties make me tired.”

Dimitri chuckles. “You’ll be by my side, is that right?” Felix can hear the smile in his voice, and he hates it. “And here I thought you wanted to opt out. But it does make me feel better. I’m glad I can count on you.”

“I —” Felix flushes. “I’m trying to get dressed in here, Dimitri. Do you want me to come or not? You’re in my way.”

With an amused hum he lets go of Felix’s waist. “I’ll be waiting,” Dimitri says in a soft voice that gives him chills.

The door clicks shut behind him and Felix turns the cufflinks over in his fingers, blood rushing to his cheeks as he pictures the lions adorning his shirt, decorating his sleeves with that glint of gold every time he glances to his hands and reminding him of Dimitri’s eager smile when he’d handed them over. Should he have protested more? How ridiculous of Dimitri to suggest he wear these, how indulgent.  Surely the king knows their paths are already intertwined without literally marking him with a symbol of their union. It's unnecessary, excessive.

Felix pins them to his cuffs, of course.

That evening the streets of Fhirdiad are alight with lanterns and the fires of food stands cooking their sizzling wares in front of entranced children. In the windows of shops and residences alike the blue flag of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus has been strung up by the citizens, symbolizing not just pride for the Kingdom but the fresh hope of Fodlan’s unification under the newly crowned King Dimitri. There is no particular point to the festivities other than to raise morale, and no specific events save for ongoing live music in the royal castle’s ballroom; it is celebration simply for the sake of it, to prove that the Kingdom once again is thrumming with new life in the wake of its past imminent collapse.

Felix had intended to stay by Dimitri’s side, but he also hates eager crowds and drunken rogues shouting in the streets at every turn. And as if those vexations weren't enough on their own, the attention of the citizens of Fhirdiad burns holes in him; the more time he spends with the king, the more Felix too falls under their exhausting scrutiny and hears their suspicious whispers. Squirming under the judgmental gazes prickling his skin, he detaches himself from Dimitri and ducks away before anyone can notice and call him back, dipping into a side street lined with food stands decorated for the occasion with lion-patterned banners.

A familiar shock of orange hair catches his eye amidst the rabble, its owner standing before a food stand selling sweet buns, hands clasped together with anticipation. Even though every one of his past interactions with Annette had been bumbling at best (and incomprehensible at worst), Felix can’t help but retain some level of affection for her. Perhaps it was fondness for the goofy songs she had sung so unabashedly while doing chores, earnest and childlike in nature; or perhaps it was sympathy for the way she watched her father with strained sadness as he stood off to the side plotting the Kingdom’s next move with Rodrigue, two men lost in their own Dimitri-centric world without a thought for their own progeny. 

Regardless of the reason, he begrudgingly makes his way to her side and greets her. “Annette. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, Felix! I haven’t seen much of you lately,” Annette remarks, her gaze diverting from the sweets to glance up and smile at him. “I hope you’re, um… okay?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I don’t see you because you’re always in the library,” he says.

“And you’re always at the training grounds,” Annette retorts. “Or with Dimitri doing, well — ! Doing — ! Doing whatever it is you do!”

That’s too much. “A-and what are you doing in the library, Annette? Singing? Do the books make for an attentive audience?”

“Felix —”

“Oh, how I just love to clean,” Felix begins in a lilting voice; he hasn’t sung since the dreaded choir practice at Garreg Mach, and the timbre comes out a bit gravelly. “Clean the library room.”

“F-Felix!” Annette squawks, both arms beginning to windmill with mortification. “Why do you still remember those?!”

He snorts. “I like them,” he says simply.  “Just takes a flash of light and then it all goes —”

“Stop!”

“...Boom.”

“You’re horrible,” Annette pouts. “If you’re gonna keep making fun of me forever, I hope you and Dimitri have — have terrible sex!”

Silence.

Utter silence.

“Wh— huh?!” Now it’s Felix’s turn to flush horribly. “Of all the things to — ! Are you out of your mind? Who says that to someone?!”

“I don’t know,” Annette wails, more distraught than she has any right to be. “I didn’t even mean to say that! I’m sorry, it just came out!”

“You’re a disaster,” Felix growls. “An utter disaster, Annette.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about Annie,” a voice from behind them chimes in, and moments later Mercedes emerges between them like a spirit materializing into view.

“Mercedes — hey, wait, did you — did you even hear what she just said?” Felix splutters, though privately he hopes she hadn’t. “And you’re telling me to be nicer?!”

Mercedes taps her chin thoughtfully. “I did. Is there any shame in discussing such things? Why, just last night I said Annie’s name so loudly, I fear the goddess herself may have overheard. I hope she wasn’t too offended — oh, Annie, there’s no need to blush. It was lovely, really.” The girl’s face is redder than her hair now, and she squeaks a mortified sound into her hands. “All my bones are intact, even. I think that’s how it’s supposed to go, right?”

“D-don’t bring that up!” Felix snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be a woman of the church? Isn’t this kind of talk — I don’t know, sacrilegious?”

Mercedes’s pleasant expression doesn’t falter at all, which is quite terrifying. “Don’t let His Majesty get too drunk later,” she says sweetly. “I don’t want to be on duty if something goes wrong.” She drapes her arm around Annette’s shoulder and tugs her closer affectionately. “I have other plans for tonight already.”

“Ugh — ugh! I don’t want to hear about your weird plans, leave me alone!” Now both girls are laughing at him, and he wants to curl up and die. ...With dignity, of course.

“By the way, you have a surprisingly nice voice, Felix,” Mercedes says, blithely ignoring his protests. “Perhaps you should consider singing for Dimitri.”

“I’m done. I’m completely done with this conversation. Goodbye, Mercedes. And Annette. Goodbye to you too. Never speak to me again, actually.”

The two women are still wheezing with laughter when he stomps away.

Ingrid doesn’t dress up unless she has to, and even then she tends to be conservative. She had begrudgingly allowed Annnette and Mercedes to help her apply some makeup (not too much, since she still wants to be able to recognize her own face in the mirror) and had worn a nice, albeit practical dress, fur-trimmed and long enough to hide the dagger sheath strapped to her leg for reassurance. But she doesn’t enter the ballroom, because it’s a pleasant night out, and there’s no reason to confine herself to the stuffy indoors  — at least, that’s what she tells herself, and that’s the narrative she’s sticking to.

From afar she locks eyes with what appears to be an aimlessly wandering Sylvain, a sight that surprises her. She had expected him to be twirling every half-drunk maiden under his arm that he can get his hands on. When he catches Ingrid looking, he gives her a cheerful, mocking two-fingered salute before making a beeline to her and standing there. Ingrid breaks eye contact, bracing herself for whatever nonsense drivel she’s about to hear.

“You look nice,” Sylvain says, a bit awkwardly. Like he means it, almost.

Ingrid carefully inspects her sleeves without looking up. “What do you need, Sylvain?”

“I don’t need anything,” he huffs. “You wound me. We’ve known each other for so long, yet you think I only talk to you when I need something.”

Ingrid looks up, scanning his face for the sincerity she’d heard briefly. She doesn’t find it. “It’s because I know you that I think that.”

“I really don’t need anything,” Sylvain insists, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I wanted to talk. Is that so wrong?”

Ingrid watches him, thinks of how different he is from her envisioned ideal of a partner. Her whole life she has followed Sylvain and smoothed over his messes one after the other, sweeping up the broken pieces of the girls’ hearts he’d broken. Next time, you’re on your own, she’d always say — and then she’d wind up doing it again. 

Perhaps it’s because she knows him, knows his act is a desperate rebellion and more pathetic than malicious. Sometimes Ingrid can even see where he’s coming from in regards to his Crest, and she can certainly sympathize with the feeling of being treated like a piece of branded meat whose only valuable quality is passing on her cursed blood to the next generation of burdened children. Still, Ingrid can’t condone the way he savagely hurts others, no matter how difficult the strain of shallow courtship can be.

Sylvain makes her heart hurt.

“No girls want to dance with you tonight?” Ingrid raises an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why you’d come to me if not as a last resort.”

“Can you stop being so suspicious?” Sylvain snaps, harsher than usual. “Do you really think I’m that awful of a person, Ingrid?”

She exhales softly, closing her eyes. “No, I don’t.” Not usually, anyway. “I apologize, Sylvain. Of course you can talk to me. What’s wrong?”

The flash of anger he had displayed has already dissipated somewhat. “I just — I wanted to ask you how you were feeling about this whole — Dimitri and Felix situation. Since you’ve known them as long as I have.”

“Situation?” Ingrid echoes. “You mean the ‘being together’ situation?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that their business?” She isn’t sure exactly what he wants to hear, but it’s apparently not that, because Sylvain frowns. “His Majesty — Dimitri seems really happy. Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. And Felix…” Ingrid gives a tight-lipped smile. “Well, Felix never really seems happy, but I can tell he is, too.”

“Happy. Yeah.” Sylvain stretches his arms out in front of him, looking off to the side away from her. “Well, good.”

Sylvain is off, that much is obvious. “Is there something wrong with Felix being happy?” she challenges coolly. “He’s our friend. Dimitri too.”

“Mm.” Sylvain isn’t smiling, but he’s not quite frowning either. Ingrid doesn’t take her eyes off him, watching for any cracks in his mask. “Don’t you think it’s a little… strange? Thinking of His Majesty getting down with Felix?”

Ingrid flushes angrily. “I haven’t been thinking of that at all,” she growls. “Your strange fantasies are your own problem.”

“I never took either of them for the romantic type,” Sylvain continues, ignoring her response. “I always thought at the very least, no matter how much I messed around, well — surely there was no way Dimitri of all people would find romance before me. He's the king of repression, honestly.”

“So you’re jealous.”

The revelation escapes from Ingrid before she has a chance to rein it in, and Sylvain’s expression darkens in an instant. “I didn’t say that.”

“By all intents and purposes, you did,” Ingrid retorts. “Honestly, Sylvain? I have a hard time feeling bad for you, considering how you conduct yourself. If you truly wanted to bond with someone, you would —”

“And you, Ingrid?” Sylvain interrupts. “Rejecting everyone’s proposals because they’re not Glenn? You hardly even knew the guy. Why not just fuck Felix and get it out of your system once and for all? They’re pretty similar — as far as we know.”

A flash of anger curls her fists at her sides. “I have my own reasons for rejecting proposals, Sylvain,” Ingrid snarls. “They have nothing to do with Glenn. I’d expect this kind of mouth from Felix, but not from you. You must truly envy him, to be acting like this.”

“And here I thought you may even be sympathetic,” Sylvain sneers. “Not mock me even more. Some friend you are. I thought — I thought at least you had my back, Ingrid.”

“At least?”

Sylvain grits his teeth. “Forget it. I was going to — just forget it. Excuse me while I go hook up with a stranger. Since that’s all I’m good for, apparently.”

“Sylvain, I —”

He pushes past her gracelessly, shoving her shoulder without looking back as he storms away. Ingrid feels oddly empty watching his broad, tense back recede into the distance. 

“Sympathetic, huh?”

The only thing worse than suffering at a party is suffering alone at a party, wandering aimlessly like a damned fool.

Felix buys a strip of smoked meat from one of the food stalls and chews on it sullenly, dipping into a slightly quieter side alley to grasp a moment of respite from the thrum of laughter and merriment in the city. The sky is slowly dissolving from sunset to a hazy dark blue, but there’s still enough light to catch on the golden cufflinks he’d irrationally allowed himself to wear, a mark of Dimitri he now carries with him wherever he goes and is reminded of every time his sleeves glint in the fading light.

Nearby he hears the fresh wails of a child beginning to cry, the sound of someone apparently having even less fun at this event than he is, and Felix wrinkles his nose with annoyance. “Ugh, so much noise. Why did I even come?” But with nothing better to do he finds himself wandering in the direction of the voice, the sobbing tugging at him like a beacon. When Felix rounds the corner he sees a boy who definitely can’t be that much older than five years old, crying into his hands with no one around to take notice of him.

This isn’t my job, Felix thinks sourly, but he approaches nonetheless. “Oi. Where’s your mother or father?”

The boy looks up to meet Felix’s gaze with his tearful one and shakes his head, sniffling. “I’m lost,” he says with a wet hiccup. “Mamma told me not to let go of her hand, and I did. Now I’m never gonna find her and I’m gonna get eaten by a beast.”

“That’s quite the imagination,” Felix chides. “She’ll find you if you don’t go anywhere, so just stay here and it’ll be fine.”

More sniffling. “You’ll stay with me, right, Mister?”

“Y-yeah,” Felix agrees before he can concoct an excuse to escape suitable for a five year old. “Why don’t we, uh —” Desperately Felix tries to think of a suggestion that will prevent the child from bursting into another irksome bout of soggy tears. “Play a game while we wait for your mom?”

“A game?” the boy says, sniffling. “What kinda game?”

“Um.” Felix hadn’t actually thought this far ahead, nor did he have firsthand experience acting the part of an older sibling figure to, well — anyone. “Here, take my hand.” Tugging off one glove, he crouches down and extends his hand, willing himself not to cringe when the boy reaches forward and wraps his sticky fingers around his own. “We’re going to — duel swords.”

“Swords?”

“Yeah. Uh. You hold your thumb out, like this. That’s — that’s the sword.” Hopefully this kid doesn’t point out that Felix is turning red up to his ears with this ridiculous explanation. “And whoever traps the other's thumb, uh. Wins the duel.”

After a moment of pause, the boy nods enthusiastically, much to Felix's relief. “Okay!” Scrunching his face with concentration, he begins to wiggle his thumb haphazardly in the direction of Felix’s, and Felix has to suppress a snort. He feigns a struggle for a while to keep the boy occupied until finally slipping his thumb underneath the child’s much smaller one and relaxing his hand in mock defeat. The boy instantly brightens. “Did I win?”

“Wow, you’re strong,” Felix says in that melodramatically awed and slightly sarcastic sort of tone that children don’t quite pick up on. “No one’s ever beaten me before.”

“Really?” the boy chirps, and he’s smiling now.

“Yeah, you’re really special,” Felix says. “I bet any beasts would run scared from you.”

Only a few minutes prior the boy had been sobbing in the street; now he’s grinning from ear to ear, the corners of his mouth crinkled with ruddy dimples. “You’re so cool,” he says, which combined with the boy’s awestruck expression is too much for Felix to handle, and he chokes on a breath before he can manage a response.

“He is, isn’t he?”

A voice from behind him causes Felix to squeak in a rather undignified manner, and he swivels around to see — damn him — Dimitri looking far too pleased with himself. Behind him stands a woman he doesn’t recognize, but judging from how the boy gasps and runs into her arms, she must be the missing mother.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the woman says as she pets her son’s hair, sounding close to tears herself. “You didn’t have to accompany me... you’re very kind. And you,” she adds with a nod to Felix, who looks away at once. “I cannot express my gratitude that you stayed with him. I am humbled by the kindness of both of you.”

With a gasp of surprise the boy turns around and looks back and forth from Felix to Dimitri with awe. “You’re friends with the king?”

Felix’s cheeks warm. “Um.”

Dimitri chuckles. “Felix is my best friend,” he says. “And I’d lost him in the crowd, too.” With a soft smile he leans down and ruffles the hair of the boy, who continues to stare at him slack-jawed. “Thank you for helping me find him.” He shakes the hand of the mother once more before the two disappear into the crowd with linked hands, the boy continuing to glance back with awestruck wonder until his mother gently tugs him around the corner and they disappear from view.

Once they are out of earshot, Dimitri leans in and plants a soft kiss on Felix’s cheek. “Found you.”

Felix makes a disgruntled noise, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

Dimitri ignores him, of course. “I didn’t know you were such a natural with children,” he teases. “How cute.”

“Shut up.”

He waggles his thumb in front of Felix’s nose. “Do I get to duel swords with you, too?”

“I said, shut up!”

Ashe doesn’t own much in the way of formal clothes. His extra funds are better spent sending supplies or gifts to his younger siblings, repairing his weapons, or furthering his studies. Even picturing himself in a suit of any kind is a bit strange; he doesn't have the poise or stature to look like anything other than a boy playing dress-up. 

Despite such misgivings, Ashe had approached Dedue in the days before the celebration to suggest they attend the event together. 

...At least, that had been his original intent. Instead of posing the question directly, Ashe had blurted a curious query about Duscur’s style of formalwear — what’s the style like? is it a lot different than here in Fhirdiad? — while cursing himself for losing his nerve at the last minute.

I should have asked directly, Ashe berates himself mentally, over and over. But despite the gaffe, Dedue had nonetheless taken Ashe to his quarters and shown him the remnants of cultural clothing he had stored there, including a variety of colorful patterned shawls, and jewelry in the same style as the earring Dedue had always worn during their Academy days. Dedue had noticed Ashe’s fascinated expression and awkwardly assured him he could try on whatever he liked if he so desired, which in turn had resulted in at least an hour of Ashe reverently going through the clothes, thumbing through the elegant fabrics and gushing about their beauty to their embarrassed owner.

“Are you going to wear some of this to the celebration?” Ashe had said, and Dedue had nodded, explaining that he found it his duty to represent Duscur in some manner, even if he was the only one doing so. Even behind the man’s carefully-crafted stoicism Ashe had sensed his sadness, and before he could stop himself he was asking Dedue to please let me represent Duscur with you, any way I can, because we’re friends! Dedue’s surprise had been palpable, but he had relented without much resistance save for an offhand cough, and he had allowed Ashe to borrow a shawl and necklace of his choosing.

Now that the night has arrived and he is standing in the streets with Dedue, Ashe feels a little ridiculous, swimming in the beautiful fabrics with his unfitting tiny frame while the man beside him looks impossibly regal in comparison. “I’ve never worn so much ornamentation before,” Ashe says, brushing nervous and reverent fingers over the filigree of the necklace, and he’s blushing. 

“You’ve received many compliments,” Dedue replies with a slight smile, “so I’m inclined to believe it suits you.” 

These clothes are too beautiful for someone so plain. Ashe bites back the traitorous thought. Though of course, they suit you… “Well, they’re your clothes,” he says instead. “Thank you again for letting me borrow them. It’s really an honor.” 

“An honor,” Dedue echoes with disbelief. “I do not wish to argue with you, but surely you must know that nothing related to Duscur is considered honorable these days.”

Ashe shakes his head furiously. “Those opinions won’t last forever, I’m sure of it. Some people are already starting to come around.”

As if one of those very people had been summoned by the words themselves, a familiar figure turns the corner and smiles at the two of them before walking over. “You two look lovely,” Ingrid says, and though her tone is genuine, her eyes flicker across the room as though searching for something or someone.

"Thank you, Ingrid," Dedue says with a nod. "You, as well."

Ashe hesitates for a moment before asking the question. “Ingrid, are you all right? You look a bit… thoughtful?”

“I’m all right,” Ingrid says, a bit detached. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have seen Sylvain, would you?”

Ah, so that’s it.  “I haven’t,” Ashe says, and Dedue too shakes his head. “Would you like us to help you look for him?”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Dedue adds.

Ingrid sighs. “No, it’s not urgent. I was just curious. I don’t want to get in the way of you two, though. Just — if you see him, can you tell him that — ? Oh, never mind. I don’t want you in the middle of this. Sorry to bother you. Just — continue having a good time. I'll deal with it.” 

Too bewildered to formulate a sufficient response in time, the two men watch helplessly as Ingrid swivels on her heel and cuts short the conversation she had started herself. “That’s the most flustered I’ve ever seen her,” Ashe remarks as he watches her turn a corner and vanish into the distance. “I wonder what happened?”

“Regardless of what she said,” Dedue says, “we ought to let Sylvain know she was looking for him if we come across him.”

“Yeah,” Ashe says, though he’s not convinced they should at all.

By the time Felix follows Dimitri into the castle ballroom, it’s too late to duck away unnoticed. Dimitri’s expression is one of longing as he watches the dancers enjoying the soft music, and his intentions are instantly clear, heat rising to Felix’s cheeks before Dimitri even speaks.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, and there’s a playful lilt to his voice that sets Felix’s skin tingling.

“What.” Perhaps if he feigns ignorance, this scene before him will just… go away.

“Dance with me.”

Yeah, right. As if it's ever that easy.

Felix turns away from him, staring sourly at the dance floor, at the couples twirling and giggling in each other’s arms. “Not interested.”

“Well, I’m interested,” Dimitri says, placing one hand on his shoulder. “Would you really disobey a direct order from the king?”

“This is what you choose to pull rank for?” Felix scoffs. “And yes, I would, actually.”

“Why are you so opposed?”

Felix doesn’t have a convincing answer to that question. Actually, he doesn’t have an answer at all — he was mostly fighting back out of habit, honestly. “Well.”

Dimitri chuckles, bringing one knuckle to his lips to stifle the sound. “You’re not even going to make up an argument? I suppose this is a win for me.”

“Didn’t know it was a challenge,” Felix mutters. “F-fine. We can dance.” Sure is difficult to act indifferent when that traitorous embarrassed stammer plagues his speech.

Felix takes his gloves off and folds them, placing them in the inside pocket of his coat and extending his hand to Dimitri. He expects Dimitri to do the same and tamps down a swell of disappointment when the man takes his bare hand in his own covered one. But he shrugs it off for now. Dimitri tends to have odd social oversights at the strangest times, and Felix doesn’t feel like pursuing this line of conflict. Instead he begins to gently move in time to the music, guiding Dimitri across the floor bit by bit. It becomes abundantly clear after mere moments that Dimitri has no sense of musicality whatsoever and cannot relax to save his life; leading him around the ballroom is like dancing with a wooden training dummy — and to top it all off, Dimitri seems blissfully unaware of just how awkward he is.

Felix exhales with exasperation. That’s part of the man’s charm, he supposes begrudgingly. 

“You know, for as much as you complained,” Dimitri says, “you’re actually better at this than I am.”

“That’s not hard to do,” Felix retorts. “You have dreadful rhythm, and you’ve stepped on my toes at least five times.”

“Hmm…” His brow knits thoughtfully. “Am I really that bad?”

The way he says it, Felix almost feels guilty. “Well — yes, you’re absolute shit at dancing, but as a whole experience... no, it’s not terrible.”

“Coming from you, I would consider not terrible fairly high praise.” Felix grumbles with disgruntled affirmation, and Dimitri laughs. “Thank you for being patient with me, Felix. I have never considered myself particularly graceful. But I find myself worrying less with you. Just you staying by my side is enough.”

“If you keep being excessively sappy,” Felix snaps, “I’ll step on your foot on purpose.”

Dimitri hums cheekily but doesn’t respond save for the pointed smile, and the two lapse into a placid rhythm of movement, not particularly musical due to Dimitri’s faults but comforting nonetheless.

“Ow,” Felix growls. “You’re squeezing my hands way too tight. Can you relax a little?”

“S-sorry.”

“Doesn’t help that you left those stupid armored gauntlets on,” he adds with a raise of his eyebrow, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say anything. “I took my gloves off before we danced. If I wanted to dance with a suit of armor, I could have done that without getting my feet trodden on by you. Honestly, it’s concerning you didn’t even think to take them off.”  Felix moves his grips up the man’s wrist and gives the glove a tug; he can feel it shift with his movement but not come off entirely.

Dimitri shakes his head, and Felix pauses with the gauntlet pulled off halfway, enough so he can see the other man’s wrist. “What, you seriously want to dance with armor on?” With one definitive yank Felix removes it the rest of the way, his heart doing a strange flip at the sight of Dimitri’s exposed hand. He wants to take it, to feel Dimitri’s fingers enclosing his own, but when he looks up for permission he’s unpleasantly surprised to see an expression on the other’s face that could only be described as panic. “What’s—”

Dimitri is staring at his own palm, a shuttered expression falling across his face. “Blood,” he whispers, so quietly Felix hopes he’d heard incorrectly, and then he slaps Felix’s hand away with his own. “I’m sorry, Felix. Maybe this was a bit — much.”

“You’re the one who wanted to dance,” Felix says, taken aback.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri says again, more mechanically this time, and he takes a step back. “I just — a minute. I need a minute.”

With a pained grimace he shoves past a bewildered Felix, who is frozen in place and unable to comprehend what’s happening or even what the problem is, and Dimitri's footsteps recede away to — somewhere, Felix isn’t looking. Instead he watches the floor with stunned silence, wondering how he had managed to do something so wrong when he hadn’t thought he was doing anything at all, and by the time Felix looks back up he’s alone on the ballroom floor without even a coherent thought to keep him company.

Wherever Ashe and Dedue go, whispers of unease follow.

It starts with people moving out of the way of Dedue on the street, fearfully rather than politely, and Ashe tries to ignore it, though internally he’s incredibly angry. People at the food stands won’t look Dedue in the eye when he orders, and children hide behind their parents’ legs when he passes. Dedue pretends not to notice or be affected, but Ashe notices how the corners of his lips twitch downward for a moment at every offense.

(He’s been spending a bit too much time this evening regarding Dedue’s lips in general, but that’s another matter entirely.)

Ashe is a peaceful man who tries to see the best in everyone, but it’s taking all his self control not to shout at the passerby whose ignorant aggressions are hurting his friend. When he looks at Dedue, all he can see is the picture of kindness, a soft-hearted man who tends to the garden and would do anything for those he cares about. The scars decorating his face are not those of an intimidating brute, but are symbolic of his selflessness, of all the times he had thrown himself into harm’s way for Dimitri and for his friends. Why can’t anyone else seem to see what he does? Are the citizens of Faerghus truly that willfully blind?

The crowd parts uneasily when they step into the ballroom, even the dancing couples pausing briefly to sidestep away from Dedue’s massive silhouette. Ashe’s hands ball into fists, but he says nothing, not wishing to bring attention to Dedue’s melancholy.

But Dedue speaks anyway. “People are giving you strange looks,” he murmurs, and it twists Ashe’s heart to hear Dedue worry about Ashe’s feelings rather than his own. “Wearing the garb of Duscur, your reputation —”

Ashe tugs Dedue down with a fistful of his shawl and plants a hurried kiss on his cheek.

The bystanders who had been glaring at Ashe look away, but Dedue stares directly at him, shellshocked and blinking slowly. Immediately Ashe begins to panic — why had he let himself act all of a sudden? He should know better than to surprise Dedue like that! The man needs a gentle, gradual approach, and he’ll just end up pushing him away by going too far too fast. 

Dedue’s expression still hasn’t changed, and Ashe’s self doubt swells within him.  “Dedue, I’m sorry. Really, I don’t know what I was think—”

“Unless I am mistaken regarding the customs of kissing in Faerghus,” Dedue says, but there’s a pink tint to his cheeks now, “I believe you may have missed your mark.”

I’m… being teased. The thought makes him oddly giddy. “...Dedue?”

“Ashe, I will be quite honest with you,” Dedue says. “I reciprocate your feelings. Unquestionably.”

Ashe holds his breath.

“Yet still, I am concerned about accepting them.” Dedue closes his eyes and sighs. “Your reputation aside, I have not thought much of myself since the Tragedy of Duscur. I was prepared to live as an extension of His Majesty’s will until I died. Admittedly, moving past that is difficult. But I do believe it is also His Majesty’s will that I find a way to live for myself. That being said… I do not wish for you to waste your affection on someone so uninteresting who hardly knows himself.” 

It’s difficult hearing Dedue speak of himself in such a manner — after all, if he’s uninteresting, what does that make Ashe, the man who has nothing more to his name than a childhood of thievery and adolescence of loss and confusion? “It’s not a waste,” Ashe says stubbornly. “I — I think you’re amazing. It doesn’t matter if you think poorly of yourself. In my eyes, you’re someone I can look up to. When I watched you taking care of the plants at the monastery, your expression — you were smiling, and it was so full of tenderness. Even after everything you’ve seen and been through, you still had all that care in your heart. You give me hope for the future.” It all spills out earnestly, because there’s no other way Ashe can be.

Dedue looks thoughtful, though his expression doesn’t change drastically enough for Ashe to read. “I appreciate your words,” he says, “even though they are difficult to accept. I just want to be sure…” Dedue swallows. “That it is truly all right. To go forward with such… feelings.”

“Isn’t it what we both want?” 

He smiles. “It is. And you know — you give me hope too, Ashe. If I accept your feelings, then it is only right you accept mine as well. Perhaps together we can… teach one another to doubt ourselves less.”

Ashe sniffles before he even realizes he’s crying, and Dedue reaches forward to brush the tears from his cheeks, so gentlemanly it makes Ashe dizzy. “You’re a true knight,” he blurts, much to his own embarrassment, staring down at his feet. “I — I mean, you’re —”

“Thank you, Ashe,” Dedue says with a chuckle. “Coming from you, that is truly the highest compliment.”

This time, when Ashe stands on his tiptoes, Dedue leans down to meet him halfway, and his heartbeat thrums eagerly against his chest when the man kisses him, so gentle and tender, exactly what Ashe would expect and the part of Dedue that the outside world never seemed to see. His scent is earthy like the greenhouse, sweet like the kitchen, and Ashe parts his lips with something akin to bliss, arms reaching up to wrap warmly around Dedue’s neck. In that moment, he feels quite without exaggeration like the luckiest person in the world.

When they part, Ashe is blushing like a fool — and beaming like one, too. The crowd muttering around them may as well not even exist.

Dedue’s hands slip down to Ashe’s and envelop them with a delicate squeeze, his own cheeks dusted with pink as he asks a question that makes Ashe’s heart feel as though it is about to explode.

“Would you like to dance?”

Felix tucks Dimitri’s gauntlet into his coat and steps outside, shuddering as the cool breeze swirls about his face and rustles the loose strands of bangs on his forehead. Once the surprise of Dimitri’s strange reaction had worn off, he had realized that he should have followed the man immediately before letting him get this much of a head start. Actually, he shouldn’t have even let Dimitri leave in the first place, now that he thinks of it. Felix had been so confused by the emotional outburst that he had let Dimitri slip away without trying to stop him.

That’s how you lost him the first time.

Leaning against the castle wall is Sylvain, sipping from a wine glass he had probably swiped from inside. Felix is a bit surprised Sylvain is alone and not at least pretending to enjoy himself like he usually does when he’s not having fun; he wonders if something happened, but he can’t worry himself over that right now. Sylvain raises an eyebrow with a sideways grin when he spots Felix, and even in the low light of dusk Felix can see the red flush of alcohol blotched across his face. “Have you seen Dimitri anywhere?” Felix asks, though considering the ruddy glow of Sylvain’s cheeks and the unfocused gloss of his eyes he’s not expecting this line of questioning to go anywhere.

Sylvain laughs dryly, holding out his half full wine glass and swishing it around. “Doesn’t Dimitri touch you enough already? Come be lonely with the rest of us tonight. Lose your mind a little, live your life.”

Felix shoves his wrist away, and some of the wine sloshes over the lip and dribbles down the side onto Sylvain’s fingers. “I need to find Dimitri,” he snaps. “Stop wasting my time. I’m not going to get drunk with you, Sylvain.”

“You’re too good for that, yeah,” Sylvain says with a laugh. “You’re the second King of Faerghus now. You may as well wear the crown yourself, Your Asshole Majesty.”

Felix flushes horribly. “I’m not the second king, Sylvain. Either help me or shut up.”

“Have you touched his Hero’s Relic? You know… so to speak.”

Sylvain grabs Felix’s arm, and he retaliates by shoving him off. “Keep your putrid thoughts to yourself,” Felix snarls. “This is serious. If I don’t catch up with him, I…”

What will happen, exactly?

“He’s a big boy, Felix,” Sylvain says, his eyes serious but tone utterly patronizing. “You can’t keep the King of Fodlan as your pet.”

“How dare you,” Felix hisses as his anger continues to simmer dangerously. “I should have known you’d be less than useless, and yet somehow I’m still disappointed. I didn’t know your desire to make everyone around you miserable extended to me, too.”

Sylvain laughs. “I could say the same to you. Now go, Felix! Run into the night after your tortured maiden! I’ll be… here. As I am.”

Felix says nothing, because he refuses to add any more fuel to this fire.

“Have fun hunting the beast,” Sylvain calls after him, and Felix grits his teeth, wishing he hadn’t heard at all.

After leaving the drunkenly chortling Sylvain behind him, Felix lurks about nearly the entire castle’s perimeter for any traces of Dimitri. There are couples kissing under the dappled shadows of trees; friends with their arms slung around one another’s shoulders, laughing raucously under the influence of the same poison that had infected Sylvain; children with their parents watching the stars — each and every possible flavor of person except the king himself.

Felix remembers the advice he had given the lost boy then — just stay where you are and it should be fine — and he curses himself for not following it his own words. Why had he wasted his time with a one person scavenger hunt when Dimitri had probably just returned to the same place they’d started after gathering his thoughts? And indeed, the moment he pushes back through the doors of the castle he spots that hulking, guilty silhouette, watching the door forlornly but straightening up when he sees Felix enter.

“I apologize, Felix. I — I simply needed a moment of air. I should not have stormed off like that.”

“What did you see?” 

Dimitri blinks. “What did I see, when?”

“Did you have a bad memory or something?” Felix demands, his free hand settling on his hip. “I can tell when you’re thinking about the past, about pointless things you can’t change. You get that look in your eye like a wounded animal. And you ran from me like one, too.” 

He almost speaks again, because Dimitri is looking down and seemingly unresponsive, but the other man clears his throat after all. “Back then,” he says in that voice that Felix takes to mean during the massacre, “I was covered in blood. Mine, my father’s. I looked at my hands covered in blood, and I felt like it was my fault. Like I had killed him myself.”

“Dimitri, we were children. Of course you didn’t —”

“Do not ask for an explanation if you are just going to interrupt me on a whim,” Dimitri says testily, and Felix clamps his mouth shut, unused to Dimitri pushing back. “Every time I looked at my hands after that, I saw their blood. The blood of my father and family, and it made me sick. So I started…”

Wearing gloves, Felix realizes even as Dimitri trails off. It had always struck him as odd that Dimitri never took off his armor, not during meals and not even during the ball at Garreg Mach, way back then. But he had pushed away the nagging unease and written off the habit as just another of Dimitri's strange formalities. “And you’re still not over it even after everything that happened, is that right?” Felix asks dully.

Dimitri sighs, a heavy exhalation that sinks his shoulders. “I thought I was. I truly do not know what came over me back there. I’m just sorry you had to witness it.”

Yeah, so am I. The retort dies on Felix’s lips; for once, he has no desire to continue piling on criticisms when Dimitri looks so meek. “I’ve seen you at your worst,” he says with a shrug. “And I’m no fool like the rest of your court. Everyone thinks you’ve just miraculously moved on, but I know that’s not possible.”

“Are you angry?”

Felix considers, and shakes his head. “We all have blood on our hands after the war. But there’s no sense looking back, so respect yourself a little more than that, stupid king. Otherwise I worry for the fate of the Kingdom in your hands.”

“You’re right, of course,” Dimitri says quietly.

“And here’s this back,” Felix says lamely, holding out the gauntlet. “Since you insist on —”

With a shuddering breath, Dimitri pulls his other gauntlet off with his exposed hand and holds it out to Felix in return. “Will you hold onto these for me?” he murmurs, looking down and biting his lip. “While we dance.”

“You don’t have to,” Felix growls, a swell of annoyance bubbling up as Dimitri once again sets aside his own comfort for his sake. 

“But I want to,” Dimitri says, and if that’s not embarrassingly frank enough, he adds more softly, “I want to hold you.”

Felix snatches the gauntlet and tucks them both into his coat, cheeks burning. “Just stop talking,” he growls, grabbing both Dimitri’s hands with his own. Even without the gloves there’s so much there to touch, Dimitri’s strong fingers dwarfing his own, and he runs a thumb over the other man’s knuckles with a shudder, breath tightening in his chest when he hears Dimitri chuckle. Suddenly he feels he could topple over at any moment, and he exhales a flustered breath, allowing the ambient music from the other side of the ballroom to move him without conscious thought, his line of vision firmly glued to Dimitri’s chest to avoid looking up and facing whatever impossibly fond expression is probably etched there.

“Dancing makes me think of her, you know,” Dimitri says quietly as they sway. 

Felix stops moving for a moment. “Do you want to st—”

Dimitri shakes his head quickly. “No, no. I’m simply reflecting. My apologies if it, ah — sours the mood.”

“I wasn’t really sure what mood you were going for, so whatever,” Felix says flatly. “Though I can only hope I dance better than a corpse.”

A strange bark of laughter escapes Dimitri. “This was not a competition, Felix. Though yes, I suppose you would be winning in that regard.”

“Charming. Thanks.” Felix rolls his eyes. “You know, if —”

Dimitri leans forward and kisses him, hurried and clumsy, and Felix squeaks in an undignified manner, completely taken off guard. He's acutely aware they're amidst so many people whose eyes must be trained on them right now, and yet he doesn't pull back. Dimitri continues to lean in hungrily, the grip on Felix's hand growing painful, and Felix's pulse thrums shallowly in his chest. When the desperation to breathe grows imperative, Felix taps his side urgently with one hand, and Dimitri instantly lets up, pulling back from the kiss. “You got too eager again,” Felix mutters. “And we’re in public, too. Do you have no sh—”

“I’ve developed feelings for you,” Dimitri blurts.

Felix stares. The statement is so absurd he’s unable to speak — and then he laughs, forgetting to feel angry in his confusion. Dimitri is so damn awkward — and this is the man taking over as king, sitting on the throne for the sake of the masses? Dimitri “I’ve developed feelings for you” Alexandre Blaiddyd? There’s something so unabashedly humorous about the disconnect that Felix can’t even scold him for the clumsy admission.

“You’re laughing,” Dimitri says with wonder — of course he points it out — and Felix clamps his mouth shut, mortification washing over him. “Wow. I’ve never heard you laugh like that.”

Felix squeezes Dimitri’s hand tight enough to make him flinch. “Only because it was just that ridiculous. ' Feelings?'  That’s all you have to say after all this time? You sound like a child.”

Dimitri looks away, wounded. “In that case, Felix, let me — let me try again.” He takes a prolonged breath as though about to dive into a deep pool,  and Felix feels his own heartbeat stutter. “I believe I may actually —”

“Excuse me, can I have a word with His Majesty?”

How irritating that some stranger is stepping between them amidst all of this. Felix scowls, appraising the interloper with distaste. The man who approached them is generic, dignified and graying; Felix doesn’t recognize him specifically, but he assumes he’s either part of Dimitri’s council or visiting from one of the nearby territories for the celebration. Felix detaches from Dimitri with a huff, folding his arms across his chest and willing the heat on his cheeks to fade faster. “You’re asking for my permission?” he sneers at the stranger, annoyed he has to let go of the king’s hands at all. Dimitri’s fingers suddenly seem displaced hovering there. “I’m not His Majesty’s keeper. Talk to him as much as you’d like.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says, warningly, and Felix turns away with a huff, not wishing to cause any more of a scene. He watches off to the side as Dimitri and the man shake hands and begin to discuss vapid trivialities — quite the feat that your army pulled off against the Empire, surely Fodlan is in secure hands with someone like you at the helm — and Dimitri denies it humbly, giving credit to his comrades as he always does. It’s a typical exchange, one that Felix has heard plenty of times as Dimitri cycles through meetings with lords of other regions, and normally Felix would tune it out and leave Dimitri to carry on pleasantly by himself.

But something’s not right.

Perhaps it’s the way the stranger carries himself; the sharp, unnatural flicker of his eyes and the curled spring of his posture, a predator waiting to pounce. It’s not something Felix can easily define with words, only with the nebulous feelings of his instincts, but he just knows. 

Felix leaps forward as the stranger draws his weapon.

He unsheathes the sword at his hip and lunges at the man all in one fluid motion, his gaze locked on the man’s chest as a target even as a line silver slashes across his own periphery. Felix lunges in for the final blow, lodging his own blade between the man’s ribs, but rather than feel satisfied — something is wrong, and there’s a sudden cold dripping through him in a way that’s unnatural, lacing its way through his palms as his sword clatters heavy to the ground, blade slick with blood. His vision sways and he staggers back, the glint of metal protruding from his side flashing across his vision, and then there’s a sensation of palms pressed against his shoulders, propping up his body as his knees buckle to the ground.

As his own consciousness fades, the broken sound of Dimitri yelling his name, so far away, dissolves into nothing.

Dimitri's face is the first thing Felix sees when he finally blinks awake.

He recognizes the room as belonging to the castle's infirmary, a place he had been sent many times in his childhood after a number of errant and reckless training sessions. The room itself is a private one, reserved for royalty and esteemed visitors to the Kingdom, and Felix frowns. Of course Dimitri would have him sent here. Of course he would receive special treatment.

Felix doesn't know why it makes him irritable. By all intents and purposes, he should be happy, flattered that Dimitri sees him as this special thing.

And yet.

"Oh, you're awake," Dimitri says with palpable relief, leaning back to give Felix space as he sits up groggily. "How do you feel?"

Felix grunts with effort as he props himself up. "Sore," he says curtly. "But manageable. ...Um. Why are you staring at me like that?"

The king swallows, face contorting into something haunted. “If I had lost you,” Dimitri whispers, and there’s a slight desperation that gives Felix chills, “I would be lost. All over again, I would be lost…”

“Shut up, boar —” A swell of revulsion crashes over him, one he hasn’t experienced for quite some time. It’s a familiar disgust though, scurrying back into his thoughts like the second wave of an infestation he had already culled once. “I can’t — I refuse to stand by you if you treat me like this. Like I’m the reason you’re living.” Felix’s voice begins to shake, not with anger but fear that he’s been sucked into Dimitri’s destructive orbit, that after everything he’s just another aspect of the man’s agony and self hatred. “I may die before you, you know. You can’t just give up and shut down again — you have a whole nation looking up to you. All of Fodlan, actually. Your people need you, stupid selfish king. If something happens to me and you fall apart, I’ll — I’ll never forgive you.”

Dimitri looks wretched. “I need you,” he says hoarsely.

“No, you don’t,” Felix pleads. “You don’t. Get ahold of yourself.” He’s not sure whether the words are directed at Dimitri or himself.

The king turns away from him, shoulders hunched as though he’s standing once again in front of the rubble of the ruined cathedral. “My father was killed before my very eyes, Felix.”

“I know.”

“Yours, too.”

Felix grimaces. “I know, I know.”

“You know what happened in that ballroom, Felix?” Dimitri’s voice is shaking. “The man who attacked me was hauled off to his cell by the guards. And you — your body collapsed into my arms. Your eyes were shut. Blood all over my hands, like — like I had killed you myself.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say. His throat has gone dry.

“It’s my reality, Felix,” Dimitri continues quietly. “As the king, I will continue to be targeted. By dissenters, by usurpers. By people of Faerghus who still believe the lies crafted by Cornelia, that I murdered my uncle. By people who supported Edelgard and are bitter that she is not the one on the throne instead.  And I am prepared to stand strong against them, but — I am not prepared for you to take the blows for me.”

“You can’t just stop being a leader, because I got hurt,” Felix retorts. “I’m not even dead, and you’re still whining like this. I saved your damn life , you ingrate. I can’t stand looking at you like this. Get out of my sight.”

“Very well.” The passive agreement immediately makes Felix realize he’s overstepped, and he watches as Dimitri straightens up and turns towards the door. “I need you, Felix,” he says again, leaving Felix in stunned silence as he shuts the door behind him.

You think I’m keen on dying, Dimitri? Now that I’ve actually acquired what I’ve yearned for all these years? You think I want to selflessly save you, and leave you behind?

His hands bunch the sheets at his sides as they clench into fists.

You damn idiot. I’m selfish, too.

I can’t be with you if I’m dead.

Felix falls into a very shallow, very unrestful sleep in which he dreams he’s speaking to Dimitri, a hazy reverie that feels real until his eyes flutter open when the door to the infirmary creaks open. “Dimitri?” he mumbles, still not quite sure if he’s awake.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” says a different familiar voice, this time not tainted with the influence of alcohol, “but it’s only me.” 

Felix blinks blearily up at that shock of red hair, eyes still adjusting to the sudden swell of light. With some effort he leans forward in bed, wincing at the ache swelling in his side, and props himself up with his pillow to face Sylvain crossly. “You woke me.”

“That’s no way to greet someone checking up on you,” Sylvain says cheerfully. “That aside, I heard you and His Majesty had quite the little spat earlier.” There’s a wicked smirk on Sylvain’s face, and Felix knows he’s in for a truth he doesn’t want to hear. “I still can’t believe you of all people are criticizing Dimitri for obsessing over your safety, when you’ve been constantly thinking about him for the past — how many years? How old are you again?”

“Eavesdropping, Sylvain?” Felix says thinly. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve always been a bit of a voyeur when it comes to other people’s pain.”

“Ouch,” Sylvain responds without a hint of remorse. “Are you going to respond to what I said, or pretend you didn’t hear it?”

“The latter. Goodbye, Sylvain.”

His friend sighs, sitting on the end of the bed. “I can’t claim to know what Dimitri is thinking, but you’re pretty transparent, Felix. Listen, if Dimitri relapses into that — whatever he was before — it's not your fault. Sure, he woke up a little when your dad died, but he’s still got that nasty streak in him. After seeing what he’s like back then, I realized how far I’d grown from the guy. Even now, I don’t think I could ever fully trust him again. It’s nothing personal, just — you know, from one guy who fakes to another.”

Felix says nothing. If Sylvain is trying to make him feel like utter shit, it sure is working.

“Trouble in paradise,” Sylvain says, inspecting his nails lazily. “Maybe it’s not worth the effort, hmm?”

“You… you just can’t stand to see me enjoying anything, can you, Sylvain?” Felix says with an incredulous bark of laughter as the reality of the situation crashes down upon him. “You’re trying to dissuade me from trying, because you can’t — you don’t understand what it’s even like to think about someone else outside your own shitty self.”

“So now this is my issue?” Sylvain spits back. “Fine, Felix. Absolutely fine. You two can eat each other alive for all I care.” His lips curl into a dark smile. “And I’m sure you’ll have fun. You lusted after that guy even when he’d just crawled out of the gutter. Nothing I say will get in the way of your enjoyment.”

“I don’t understand what your problem even is ,” Felix says, increasingly frustrated. “Did I do something to you I’m not aware of?”

“See ya, Felix,” Sylvain says, standing and walking decisively towards the door. “Sorry about your stab wound, but hey, at least you’re a hero. Feel better soon.”

“Sylvain!” Felix yells. “I can’t chase after you in a hospital bed — get back here!”

Sylvain actually does pause at the door, turning back to look at him with one arched eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Sylvain,” Felix says again with a twinge of desperation, but he doesn’t actually know what he wants to say, or what he can say that will keep Sylvain from leaving. “I thought you were here to — to help me.”

That’s clearly not the right thing to say; Sylvain looks angrier than ever. “I can’t help you,” Sylvain snarls. “And honestly? I don’t want to. Find someone else to cry to for once, Felix.”

It’s only much later after he is gone that Felix realizes he’s never seen Sylvain cry.

Felix, get out of your room. We’re going back to our own territory.

I don’t want to. I want to stay in Fhirdiad.

I’m glad you had a good time with Prince Dimitri —

It’s not about that!

— but we have to get on the road before the weather takes a turn for the worse. It’s a long journey, and —

Glenn gets to stay here. Why can’t I stay? You always let him do whatever he —

Felix. We’re leaving.

I’m not opening the door. I’m staying here.

(Knock. Knock.)

You’re acting like a child, Felix.

(Knock. Knock.)

“Felix? Are you awake?”

Felix sits up in bed with a jolt, groaning with pain as the wound in his side protests the sudden movement. Dimitri stands at the entrance to the room with a sheepish expression, one hand still perched on the door handle as though already preparing to flee.

“I am now,” Felix says hoarsely. 

“Sorry.”

Neither of them say a word, Felix’s gaze dropping to the sheets.

“I’ll go,” Dimitri says after a while.

Felix shakes his head and taps the bed impatiently. He refuses to let yet another person in his life walk out on him as he watches helplessly. Thankfully Dimitri is no Sylvain, and with some hesitation he crosses the room and sits down next to him. The bed creaks with Dimitri’s added weight, but Felix doesn’t look up.

“I’m weak,” Dimitri mumbles.

“I know,” Felix says, which isn’t a kind thing to say at all.

“Please don’t die for me.”

Felix shakes his head angrily. “As though I’d throw away my life for nothing. Even if I do, that’ll be my own damn choice. Not yours. And don’t you dare say you’re not worth dying for or some bullshit. That’s up to me to decide.”

“You’re impossible, Felix,” Dimitri says, and there’s an irritation to his voice that gives Felix pause. “I’m not the best at reading others, but at the very least I have noticed the hypocrisy of your lectures, telling me to live for myself and detach my emotions while you put your life on the line. Frankly, I find your behavior difficult. You must know I don’t much like arguing with you, but I hardly am going to let you lecture me with no consequence. You are just as guilty of devaluing yourself as I am.”

Felix is utterly floored. When did this happen? When did Dimitri suddenly… understand so much? It’s because he’d given Dimitri so many more opportunities to observe him, Felix realizes with dread. He’d allowed the distance between them to close, and given Dimitri a better vantage point to see him. Really see him.

“Felix?”

Right. A response is in order. “Uh,” Felix manages, ever the poet. “This conversation is pointless — this isn’t about me.”

“By the goddess, Felix.”

“I wasn’t trying to die for you!” Felix yells, and that shuts Dimitri up for the time being. “It’s pointless if I die! And yet I almost did… I’m the one who’s weak.”

He shakes his head. “Not weak — reckless. Felix, you’re the one who told me I shouldn’t live for the dead. You helped me see that. I want to live for the living… and I want you amongst them. So please…” Dimitri exhales softly, placing a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Do not die.”

Felix nods mutely. What can he even say to that? Not even he can dispute such a raw display of emotion — hell, he’s close to tears himself.

“And I apologize for my odd outburst in the ballroom,” Dimitri continues to his surprise. “Declaring my feelings in such an unwieldy manner. In truth, when you took my hand… I realized how much we had not said to one another. How much we had done without… without my full honesty. Or yours, for that matter.”

Still Felix remains silent, gaze fixed on the hands clasped in his lap, a silent prayer to something undefinable.

“It is all so new to me,” Dimitri says quietly. “I do not know what to do, most of the time. And I apologize that my actions push you away. I have recently grown so aware of your value to me, and it is something I fear. I truly do not want to lose you, Felix.”

“I lost you for years,” Felix finally says, voice cracking and guttural.

Dimitri hesitates before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Felix’s shoulders. Felix inhales sharply as Dimitri’s palms press against his back, but again they cause him no pain. It’s not a hungry embrace but a tentative one, tinged with guilt and almost too gentle as though compensating for the fear of his own strength.

And then Dimitri murmurs something so innocuous, yet so able to break him.

“I’m sorry for leaving you.”

The wall crumbles down and Felix collapses into the king’s arms, his next exhalation a shivering sob — and another, and another, until they become uncontrollable. Back when they were kids who romped and laughed together, Felix had never shown Dimitri his tears, never wanted the prince to know the incredible power he held over Felix’s emotions. And oh, does he ever hold that power still. Dimitri’s anguish resonates through Felix like his own. Dimitri’s apologies twist his heart, Dimitri’s smiles twist his emotions into knots, Dimitri’s years of vengeful rampage and traumatic violence had eaten away at him, kept him awake even when he wished to forget it all.

He could never forget.

With a shivering breath he swallows back the last of his tears, all at once exposed and ashamed and even relieved somehow. “Don’t leave again,” Felix whispers, forehead pressing against Dimitri’s shoulder. “I’m tired.”

“I’m here,” Dimitri says softly.

“I don’t want either of us to die,” Felix says, shuddering. “And yet I’ve never been able to do a damn thing for you. Dedue saved you from your execution, and my father is the one who brought you back from the brink of madness. And now I… I…” He can’t take this show of weakness much longer; his hands clench into fists, nails biting into palms.

Dimitri shakes his head slowly. “Felix, your words are wrong. You absolutely saved me.”

“You’re not bleeding out in that ballroom, I suppose,” Felix mutters. “How amazing, I finally paid off my debt. Lucky me.”

“That is not what I meant at all,” he insists sincerely. “When I said you saved me, I hardly meant just from a simple assassin. Though, ah, of course I appreciate that as well. But…” He fidgets, fingers lacing together as he taps his thumbs. “What I mean to say is you saved me from myself. At the end of those five long years, and you were still there. All that time, I didn’t think I was worthy of being spared a second thought. And yet you still…”

“Don’t give me that much credit,” Felix says, almost frantic. “I thought you were dead. And you practically were still dead. Don’t — don’t assign me a job I didn’t ask for. I’m not your savior.”

Dimitri smiles at him with painful fondness. “What you did for me was not something you did consciously, Felix. And there is no job I expect you to do in the future.”

“Dimitri.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re too damn formal,” Felix snaps. “Express your gratitude like a normal person.”

Wordlessly Dimitri nods, and Felix worries for a moment that his words had negatively impacted him on some tangible level. He’s about to awkwardly apologize when he feels Dimitri’s hand brush against his cheek — not with his glove, but skin on skin — and Felix holds his breath as the man’s clumsy earnest fingers trail along his jawline and settle under his chin, tilting Felix’s face up to meet his one blue eye straight on.

“Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri says, and then he kisses him.

It’s the gentlest, most chaste kiss they’ve shared so far, and the back of Felix’s neck tingles as heat spreads across his skin. His own hands are hovering in midair, and he desperately tries to find a suitable spot for them. Felix flounders, placing one palm on the bed only to realize when Dimitri inhales sharply that he’s rested his hand on Dimitri’s lap — a bit too low — and he retracts his fingers like he’s touched hot coal. When Felix dares to glance up after the mishap he is faced with Dimitri’s cherry red cheeks flushed with surprise, and Felix still hasn’t found a place for his hands. 

He feels a bit hysterical. And lightheaded, though that’s more from lack of breathing than anything else, as both of them are far too anxious to pull away from one another. “Dimitri,” Felix mumbles against his lips, the final syllable parting his own as he presses forward into Dimitri’s with his tongue. All at once Felix finds his raw desire spilling over, the strength of which he hadn’t cared to admit before. But now he yearns to make his own gratitude known, to let Dimitri know that he craves him more than anything else. It’s always been him.

Other than a surprised guttural noise, Dimitri hasn’t reacted much as Felix kisses him, as though hesitant to reciprocate. But the noise alone makes Felix tremble, and he reaches up to tug Dimitri’s chest closer to his, pressing up against him with his hips. Felix sways, his vision warping, and he remembers only then to breathe. With a groan he pulls his head away, gasping for breath even as the realization of his pure neediness comes crashing over him in a swell of distaste at his own behavior. 

Dimitri has a shy, bewildered smile on his lips. “Careful not to reopen your wounds with that kind of movement,” he murmurs. And then, before Felix can scoff in reply, he adds in an even smaller, barely audible whisper: “I am very lucky.”

“Mm.” Felix bites his lip, staring at the bedsheets. “M-me, uh — me too.” He can’t even manage his usual aggression. “Dimitri, I — ” Fuck, now he’s holding back tears again.

“You don’t have to force yourself to speak if you are struggling,” Dimitri says, surprising him again. “After all, you did —”

“I want you,” Felix blurts, woefully ungraceful as ever.

Dimitri chokes. “You’re — injured, Felix. I can’t — um. Not right now. If that’s what you’re refer—”

“Y-yeah.”

“Well.” Dimitri coughs, and it’s awkward, and Felix regrets opening his stupid mouth. “You, ah. You were just, erm — stabbed, you know. I don’t want to — I don’t trust myself not to —” He inhales, shaky and too fast. “Um, but I’m… flattered.”

Flattered. Felix wants to scream. “Let’s not talk about this,” he mumbles, utterly mortified. “Forget I said anything.”

Dimitri shakes his head, a nervous smile on his lips. “How do you expect me to forget? I want the same, you know. But later, once you’re healed.”

He nods mutely, not trusting himself not to stammer if he speaks.

“I should leave you to rest,” Dimitri adds, still blushing when he stands up. “Oh, and — Felix? Thank you for dancing with me.”

Felix flops down on the bed after Dimitri closes the door behind him, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

Now I wish that stab wound had killed me after all.

Ingrid hasn't even visited Felix, not wishing to see him bedridden like this. It reminds her too much of — someone else, injured in this very castle for the very same reason, protecting Dimitri. Instead she sits outside the infirmary and receives the health report from Mercedes, who clearly picks up on Ingrid's discomfort from her blank stare and tense shoulders but thankfully has too much tact to call any attention to it.

“I told him he should stay in bed at least a week after the treatment,” Mercedes says. “There’s only so much magic can do, after all. The body needs time to heal on its own. I suppose you can imagine what he said to that suggestion.”

Ingrid imagines the impatient clenching of Felix’s jaw as he received the diagnosis. “I'm sure he fought back. He doesn’t like waiting.”

Mercedes laughs lightly. “He said, ‘I'll rest for three days maximum.’ And I said, ‘Felix, that’s less than half of what should be the absolute minimum recovery time.’  Then he said, in that silly way of his: ‘This is non-negotiable, Mercedes. Now leave me be.’”

Mercedes's attempt at imitating Felix's surly attitude with that wispy, ethereal voice is so absurd Ingrid can’t help but snort. “I’m sorry all my friends are idiots who don’t take care of themselves. You’re much too patient than they deserve.”

"And what about you, Ingrid?" Mercedes asks in that too-perceptive manner of hers. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Ingrid sighs. "Yes. I think so? I suppose I'm... not sure." She fidgets, fingers tapping together in her lap.

Mercedes's gaze softens. "You can talk to me, you know. We're friends." And then, as if she can sense Ingrid's guilt about diverting the conversation from their wounded friend: "It doesn't have to be about Felix."

"Yes, you're right. In truth, I'm — worried about Sylvain," Ingrid grits out, the words thick and heavy on her tongue. "Well, I'm always worried about Sylvain, but this is different. It's not about his womanizing this time. He just seems... really affected by all of this. Really jealous, even. It's unlike him."

Mercedes waits patiently.

"Or maybe it's not unlike him?" Ingrid questions herself, running one absent hand through her bangs. "Maybe it's always been like him. Either way, I think I was too hard on Sylvain before. Well — okay, of course he brings it upon himself. He always does. And yet — I fear I missed something. Something important.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’ve seen him lash out before, but not at me. And I get angry at him, so often, but — I realized I don’t want to be the cause of his anger.” Ingrid swallows. “Mercedes, I don’t know what to do,” she admits after a moment.

“Hmm,” Mercedes hums, light and thoughtful. “What do you want to do?”

Ingrid pictures Sylvain’s angry snarl, and then even more confusingly pictures the fleeting, gentle embarrassment she’s seen on his features too.

"I just want to talk to him," she confesses.

Mercedes smiles. "Then you should."

"I don't know what to say to him," Ingrid protests. "That's pathetic, isn't it? I've known him forever. Why don't I know what to say?"

"It's probably because you've known him forever that you're struggling," Mercedes says in a way that is both cryptic and comforting. "This won't last forever, Ingrid." With a sad smile she drapes her arm across Ingrid's lap and takes the woman's hand in her own. "You're both hurting, but I have faith in both of you."

"Thank you, Mercedes," Ingrid whispers, clinging back.

The two sit like that for a while in silence, Ingrid gripping Mercedes's hand as though it is grounding her, afraid to know how the world will shift beneath her feet when she finally lets go.

Everything is stiff and aching when Felix staggers out of bed, and the physicians tasked with watching him implore him not to move around; but he just shakes his head, stretching painfully with one arm steadily planted on the wall as he works to maintain his balance. Sitting around doing nothing is the worst kind of torture for Felix, and he wants to roam about even if it delays the complete healing process, anything to distract himself from his gnawing restlessness.

He comes across Gilbert in the hallway — I’m surprised to see you out and about, are you feeling all right? — and Felix deflects the questions, instead asking if he knows where Dimitri might be. Gilbert directs him to the courtyard with an oddly guilty grimace and Felix acknowledges without thanking him before leaving. Treating the man with proper politeness feels like a disservice to Annette somehow.

Outside the weather is quietly foreboding and dissonant, storm clouds graying a still sunny sky with the soft rumblings of distant thunder threatening an upcoming tempest. Felix makes his way to the courtyard, stopping every so often to catch his breath, lungs pinched and drawn thin from the ever present pain of his partially healed wound. A hazy memory surfaces of his past romps here with Dimitri and Ingrid, chasing one another other around the courtyard with makeshift swords fashioned from sticks as Sylvain laughed and attempted to mischievously trip them with an errant foot. Felix remembers slamming face first into the dirt on one such occasion and subsequently getting scolded by his father while Glenn snorted with mirth at the sight of his baby brother covered in scrapes and mud.

There’s a pond in the center of the courtyard, surface rippling with the low breeze, and it is there that Felix finds Dimitri, staring out at the water with a contemplative frown. The scene itself is peaceful, but Felix can’t help but tense just looking at him, something in Dimitri’s demeanor taut as a drawn bowstring and pointed at some unidentifiable distant target.

“Hello, Felix,” Dimitri says without looking at him, and Felix jumps, not realizing he had been spotted. Usually his soft gait tended to take others by surprise. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The cadence of Dimitri’s voice is a bit off somehow, nothing Felix can define in words but a familiar emptiness that sets a shiver down his spine. “You’re thinking about something.”

“Yes, I am,” Dimitri says, finally turning his body to face Felix, though his expression doesn’t change. “You caught me at a time of… well. I just recently returned from visiting our prison. To speak with… that man.”

“The one who attempted your assassination?” Felix says, because he doesn’t want to quantify him as the man who stabbed me lest Dimitri begin to spiral into that woeful state of his. “What for?”

“He was a former man of the Empire,” Dimitri says coldly. “I went with Gilbert to interrogate him, and he continued to praise the ghost of that woman and his fealty to her.” The grimace on his face pulls his lips back in a snarl, not unlike that of an aggressive animal. “He would not answer our questions, and it was a rather fruitless endeavor. But he will not be bothering the Kingdom any more. He has been taken care of.”

The words taken care of ring unnaturally like inharmonious bells, the hair on the back of Felix’s neck prickling. “What — what did you do? Dimitri?” The man’s face is tilted towards the graying sky, features fractured by the light of a lone ray of sunlight seeping through a break in the clouds. “Dimitri? Hello?” Still nothing, not even a flinch. “You’re scaring me.”

Dimitri blinks slowly, languidly. “I was merely… thinking.” A pause. “As for that man, I killed him.”

Felix swallows. He waits for more explanation.

It doesn’t come.

“You killed him,” Felix echoes incredulously. “Why?”

Silence.

“Why, Dimitri? Are you even listening to me?” Jaw clenching, he takes a step towards the immobile figure before him. “So we’re back to this Dimitri, huh? Did your father come to you in a vision and tell you to do it, you miserable king? My father, perhaps? Or my brother?”

“Silence, Felix,” Dimitri barks. “You are acting absurd. It had to be done.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Felix growls. “It was revenge, wasn’t it? I know you. Even after all this time, you never listen to me. I bet you thought you did it for me. Well, I can’t even stand to look at you. I bet you reveled in it, you miserable —”

“I said, silence.”

The word echoes through the clearing, ugly and pointed, and Felix leaps forward without thinking, prepared to punch sense into the king if need be. But Dimitri grabs his wrist when he swings, and Felix struggles — or tries to, anyway. The king is holding him firmly in place at arm’s length; his fist doesn’t quite reach, and the grip on him is steely and unyielding. With a frustrated grunt Felix attempts to kick Dimitri instead, but the man’s free hand swipes his foot away like he’s swatting a gnat. Felix feels so helpless all of a sudden in a way he hasn’t experienced for a long time, as though Glenn himself is standing behind him mocking his weaknesses.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri says, too calm. “You’re injured. You shouldn’t be fighting.”

“You’re making me angry,” Felix snarls. “Explain yourself. Or I’ll —” He’ll what, exactly? The sudden movement has already caused his wound to grip his side with its thorny grasp, and Felix inhales a painful, shuddering breath.

Dimitri shakes his head and lets go, shoving Felix away with the palm of his hand. He staggers backwards, foot catching on an errant root protruding from the ground, and when he tries to steady himself his body locks up unexpectedly, sending him into a rapid collapse. Felix torques himself painfully to avoid slamming into the dirt and instead manages to direct his inertia towards the pond, gritting his teeth as icy cold water breaks his fall. He gasps once out of shock, tasting the grit of stirred up sand and leaves, before breaking free of the surface to gasp for air. 

Spitting out the dirt and plant debris he had picked up from the lake floor, Felix glares woefully at Dimitri who’s regarding him from the shore with equal parts amusement and concern.

“Sorry,” Dimitri says, and even though he has a half smile on his lips Felix can tell he’s being genuine. “I honestly did not think you would fall. But here, let me help you.”

He extends one hand to Felix, and he takes it without any thought for his pride, too irritable and shivering to refuse the assistance. With a grunt and splash he stumbles out of the waist deep water and onto the bank beside Dimitri. “Fuck,” he hisses, the granular texture of dirt still stuck to his tongue. “Fuck — ow.”  The dull throbbing has resumed in his side, and Felix thinks perhaps he shouldn’t have gotten out of bed after all.

(Not that he’d ever admit that to Mercedes.) 

“Lean on me if you need,” Dimitri says, and Felix is too exhausted to protest, grabbing Dimitri’s arm to hold himself up. “You know, Felix, you can’t just attack me every time I do something you don’t think is the right thing,” Dimitri says gently.

“I can and I did.” Water drips from Felix’s drenched clothes and hair as he faces Dimitri like a waterlogged, indignant cat thrown in the bath against his will.

Dimitri sighs heavily. “That man needed to be killed, Felix. There was no point keeping someone alive whose sole purpose in life was the murder of me and my friends and family to dismantle the Kingdom.” This time he’s standing his ground, no self-flagellating uncertainty darkening his eyes. “I can’t afford to lose my closest allies —from an emotional or political perspective,” he adds before Felix can hiss out the retort. “He would have been sentenced to death either way.”

“Why did you have to do it?” Felix asks desperately, though he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer, or if it’ll give him peace of mind.

“I wanted to see it done,” he says simply.

“Not because it was personal?”

Dimitri sighs. “Do I seem particularly unstable to you at the moment?”

“No,” Felix admits, and it’s true; Dimitri’s movements are not particularly erratic, simply a bit guarded. “And what’s that have to do with anything? You didn’t answer my question.”

“It was personal, I’ll admit,” Dimitri says. “I cannot so easily detach those feelings from my actions. But I did not drag it out. I realized he was not going to spill any information, and I ended it quickly. I have been contemplating the choice, and feel a bit, mmm… melancholy about the decision, I suppose. I do not truly revel in killing like you claim I do, you know. But I do not regret my actions either. There was a certain finality in getting it done myself. Honestly, what was plaguing me more than anything was knowing how you would interpret my decision.” Dimitri raises an eyebrow at him. “It seems you did not disappoint in that regard.”

Felix presses his lips together. “I don’t like hearing about you killing people. How am I supposed to know you didn’t — didn’t —”

“Didn’t enjoy it?” Dimitri suggests, and Felix looks down, ashamed. “I’ve given you plenty of reasons to feel that way in the past, I know. But please trust me when I say I have listened to you. I have no intention of going back to the place I was before.  And, Felix — I will have to kill again. You cannot protect me from everything, you know.” 

“Protecting you? That — that wasn’t my intention,” Felix huffs. “But… okay, fine. I overreacted. Now leave me be.”

“Leave you be? No, I’m taking you back to bed,” Dimitri says. “You have no say in the matter.”

“No say?” Felix echoes with a bitter laugh. “What does that mean? Are you going to kidnap me, boar king?”

“Something like that,” Dimitri agrees lightly, which makes Felix’s heartbeat shudder in his chest, and before he can whip out a retort Dimitri has bent down and scooped him up in those impossibly strong arms of his with no effort whatsoever.  

“Y-you don’t want to carry me,” Felix stutters. “I’m… soggy.”

Dimitri raises an eyebrow. “But I do want to carry you, Felix. And I’m the one who made you soggy in the first place. So this is just my repentance.”

Put me down, Felix tries to choke out, but the words die in his throat. He feels so secure in the man’s arms, more than he has any right to be. From his current angle he watches Dimitri glance down at him, jaw tilted as he blinks curiously, and Felix swallows. “Don’t drop me,” he mutters, giving in to this situation because he doesn’t have the energy to squirm free.

“I won’t,” Dimitri reassures him.

The shifting of Dimitri’s body as he begins to walk is oddly lulling; Felix relaxes into his arms, resting his head against the man’s shoulder. As much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it, the lack of property recovery time had sapped his energy quickly, and now the fatigue sets in all at once. Felix closes his eyes letting his own breathing melt into the cadence of Dimitri's. “Oi, boar.”

“Hmm?”

“Next time, if you're planning on doing something stupid, I’ll — go with you. Wait for me.”

“So you can kill my enemies in my stead?” Dimitri challenges, and Felix swallows, feeling quite seen. “You really are a hypocrite, Felix. But all right, I’ll wait for you.” Felix sighs in affirmation, dozing pleasantly against the steady rhythm of Dimitri’s gait. “We’ll need to draw you up a bath when we return.”

“Don’t you have,” Felix says, and his own words are then interrupted by a yawn, “actual responsibilities to attend to?”

“Would you rather me ask Mercedes to assist you?”

“Okay, fine,” Felix mutters quickly. “Whatever. Do what you want, then.”

“Felix,” he says with a mischievous lilt, “why don’t you express your gratitude like a normal person?”

He opens his eyes then, only briefly — and shuts them quickly again when he sees Dimitri’s teasing grin bearing down on him. “Ugh. ...Thank you. Dimitri.”

Dimitri laughs, a sound that vibrates through him and through Felix’s body pressed to his chest, and for the first time since everything, since Duscur, since the Officer’s Academy, since the war — Felix lets himself think that unthinkable, hopeful thought: things might actually be okay now.

And then, the even more taboo realization: I’m happy.

"Dimitri," he breathes.

"Yes?"

"Thank you... for dancing with me."