Archive of Our Own

On the morning Felix is summoned to a council of war, he’s halfway through his third coffee, and the kingdom has been at peace for almost a year.

He frowns at the messenger fidgeting outside his room. “Who called this meeting?”

“I believe it was your ‘Professor,’ Sir,” the man replies, and Felix squints into his beverage, wondering whether its symptoms for overdose include auditory hallucinations. Three cups should be within his limits, but he has no better explanation for what he’s hearing other than caffeine induced delirium.

Felix fixes his sleep deprived stare on the man. “Is this urgent?”

“Her Grace didn’t mention– as far as I’m aware, she only said to dress appropriately and arrive within the hour.”

Meaning she expects him there in a fraction of that time.

“Of all the blasted days,” Felix growls, and the messenger jumps, apparently intimidated by his loungewear and bedhead. Felix waves a dismissal, not bothering to extend thanks before slamming the door shut.

Byleth’s motives weigh heavy on his mind; if she’s called them together, he has no way of knowing her underlying intent.

Though, he does know who might.

Before paying his visit to the king, Felix changes into a dark-turquoise frock coat, donned over his usual turtleneck— an outfit he considers passable for royal councils. Additionally, he pours himself more coffee.

Felix doesn’t drink the stuff for pleasure’s sake. As long as it's not overloaded with sugar and cream the way Annette prefers, he could go either way on the taste. Rather, coffee is a reliable source of energy that makes up for every night spent tossing and turning in bed.

The insomnia cropped up a few months after he became duke, coupled with an intense anxiety that often has him gripping his sword hand hard enough to score half-moons into his palm. At times, it proves so overwhelming he’s forced to stop himself and head straight to the training grounds, lest he crease wrinkles into his paperwork.

Felix eyes said paperwork taking up space on his desk. It doesn’t help his unease when a good percentage of them are addressed to one, ‘Duke Fraldarius.’

Despite long carrying out his father’s duties, Felix has yet to mentally adopt his title, and as the weeks draw closer to the first anniversary of Rodrigue’s death, Felix’s restlessness has only grown— hence the fourth mug he now sips from, taking stock of himself in the mirror.

Six hours of sleep across the past three days, and he doesn't look any worse for wear. If Felix were to ask for an opinion, he’d probably even net himself some compliments, having left his hair down the way he suspects Dimitri likes it.

Not that Felix has any intention of finding out.

________________

As much as her actions might imply, Byleth doesn’t technically have authority over her former students.

It may have to do with the restructuring that took place after the war ended, or perhaps a need for allies in close places, but whatever the case, they all took up residence in Fhirdiad, graciously housed under Dimitri’s roof.

These temporary living arrangements became the new normal for Felix.

Unlike in their monastery days, the Blue Lions aren’t bound to the castle by any rules, free to come and go as they please— himself included. In addition to tamping down bouts of insurrection around the kingdom, Felix has left Fhirdiad several times to survey his own territory. It’s refreshing to get outside the capital, and the landmarks of his old home bring a level of comfort.

But it’s never long before that comfort sours, turning nostalgic sights into unfriendly reminders of what is missing from every familiar scene. He ends his trips itching to return to the castle, and the people who know him. The person that knows him.

Felix loops a path around the estate, reaching Dimitri’s quarters in record time. He’s early enough to expect Dimitri asleep— but upon entering unannounced, Felix instead finds him rifling through his dresser.

Felix leans against the door jam, content to observe.

Save for a cycling collection of capes and cloaks, Dimitri has taken to wearing the most understated garments he can get away with, maintaining a wardrobe of muted blue articles with only inconsequential gold detailing to hint at their actual worth. As Felix has been happy to inform him, on any given day Dimitri could easily pass for one of the castle’s servants.

What Felix doesn’t say, is that even in his clothing of choice, Dimitri is just too good looking to be mistaken for anything but royalty.

That being the case, he’s still required to don his king regalia for speeches, ceremonies and, as laid out by Gustave, “any other event of supreme importance.”

This definition must extend to today’s council, judging by the trousers Dimitri has on— silk-lined and fitted in several interesting places.

Felix clears the discomfort from his throat, and Dimitri turns round with a wild motion.

“Felix! Goddess, you startled me,” he says, scandalized like a maiden caught undressed.

Felix raises a brow. “Not happy to see me?”

“Of course I'm glad to see you. But why–”

Felix nods to where Dimitri is gripping the edge of the dresser. “You’re splitting the wood.”

Dimitri snatches his hand away, moving in front of the damage as if to conceal it, like Felix doesn’t already know about his insane strength. Baffled, Dimitri continues, “Why are you in my room?”

“Should I have scheduled an appointment?” Felix asks.

“That’s not what I–“ Dimitri’s eyes go wide. “You’re teasing me.”

Slow on the draw as usual. Having the upper hand is a cheap victory with someone so genuine.

Felix huffs. “I’m making fun of you. There’s a difference.” Crossing his arms, he pushes off from the door frame. “If you’re already awake then we must really be going to war.”

Remarkably calm for a king whose domain is under threat, Dimitri laughs, a perplexed smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“I should hope not! That would certainly ruin my plans for today.”

Felix can’t find the humor in their situation. His brain stalls as Dimitri settles on the bed and begins putting on his boots. “Your plans...to attend the war council?”

Dimitri looks up. “The what?”

“The war council,” Felix says. “The Professor called for one.”

The following seconds of shocked silence tell him all he needs to know.

He briefly relays the messenger’s words to Dimitri who listens with growing comprehension and— embarrassment? Dimitri rubs his brow. “Ah. I see what’s happened.”

“Has she gone and started a fight on your behalf?” Felix wouldn’t put anything past Byleth. If it meant ensuring the happiness of her former students, she would overthrow empires— had, in part, toppled one for their sake.

“Nothing that excessive,” Dimitri says, visibly torn between agitation and amusement. “You see, I had news to share. As we all live on our own schedules, I expressed to her my doubts at everyone willingly gathering in one place. I had intended to contact you all separately today, but it seems she’s done the work for me.”

Not a single one of them would ignore a call to arms. Byleth being the key actor instead of Dimitri keeps the meeting to those within her circle, rather than the entire court. It’s ingenious. And audacious. Their Professor in a nutshell.

“We’re going to be in big trouble if this spreads,” Felix warns, though he’s sure it already has. Dimitri probably has at most an hour to set things straight before people start waking up to a war that doesn’t exist.

Dimitri sighs. “Yes, I’ll deal with it. Do you mind if I finish getting ready?”

Why Dimitri needs his permission is beyond him. Felix shrugs. “Whatever.”

Accepting this as a yes, Dimitri nods and in one fluid motion, he crosses his arms below his ribcage and lifts his woolen undershirt over his head.

Felix looks away.

Pathetic.

Disgusted by his own reaction, he forces himself to take in the pale lines criss crossing Dimitri’s torso. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before; Dimitri regularly drags his hem up to wipe away sweat during training, and the scars revealed then are simply symbols of his experience and strength. In comparison, the bedroom feels too intimate. It transforms those symbols into something indescribable. Felix once more averts his gaze until he’s sure Dimitri is fully dressed.

By then, Dimitri sits in front of his mirror with a brush, angling his head side to side.

He makes eye contact with Felix’s reflection and smiles apologetically. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Dimitri gathers his hair together and fumbles with a tie, cursing as strands slip from its hold. He puts it into a ponytail, frowns, and takes it out. Felix dispassionately watches him repeat this process.

When the band around Dimitri’s fingers finally snaps, Felix’s patience follows suit.

“We don’t have all day you know.”

Dimitri has the gall to look ashamed.

“I apologize, I’m not used to fashioning hair of this length. My–” He pauses. “Someone always did it for me as a child, and when it was short, there was no reason to. Once I let it grow again I was never…”

Lucid enough to care about his own appearance? Forced to handle something with precision that wasn’t a weapon? Capable of doing even the most mundane of tasks? Felix hates how easy it is to fill in the blanks.

He rolls his eyes and marches over to the vanity, jerking Dimitri’s chin forward and pointedly ignoring his startled gasp.

“Once a spoiled prince, always a spoiled prince. Keep still.” Dimitri is motionless as Felix cards his fingers none too gently through blond strands, yanking at the knots hard enough to tug Dimitri’s head back. “Did you even bother brushing it out?”

“Y-yes?” Dimitri falters. “After bathing I–”

“While it was wet? No wonder it’s such a mess.” Felix gives up on using his hands and grabs a nearby comb. “This is going to take more than a moment.”

“You don’t have to,” Dimitri says, timid.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Felix replies. “You should be grateful.”

Felix is familiar enough with his own routine to tackle the unkempt nest that is Dimitri’s hair. He wasn’t exaggerating when he called it a mess; there are mats at the base of Dimitri’s neck and tangles Felix has to carefully comb through to avoid breakage.

How Fódlan’s king got this far without such rudimentary knowledge is baffling. For Felix, lessons on the importance of hair care came early in life, along with the so-called privilege of inheriting a signature Fraldarius trait: waves. They’re a complete hassle to maintain, but he has no other choice— unless he’d rather people mistake him for a mangy dog.

When Felix was a child, bereft of a doting mother and plus one perpetually busy father, Glenn took it upon himself to keep them both well groomed and presentable. This responsibility was nothing to scoff at; Felix had a habit of getting himself into scrapes thanks to the company he kept.

The same few scenes flit through his memories: Sylvain leading their troup on some adventure, Dimitri meekly following and Ingrid there as a much needed voice of reason. Small for his age, Felix was the straggler of the group, the one easy to overlook and leave behind.

The second he’d realize he was alone, overwhelming panic would spread through every limb, nearly choking him with its intensity. Thinking back, Felix identifies it as existential dread, his first taste of true, earthly abandonment.

At that time, he’d have run off, tripping over himself in his haste and not stopping until he caught sight of his friends’ receding backs.

The recollection is hardly flattering.

He’d end the day dirty and disheveled, dumped on his brother like one might handle an especially troublesome pet. Glenn would study Felix with a shrewd gaze while Ingrid and Sylvain patted at his muddy clothes, and Dimitri clutched tightly to his hand.

His brother would then flash that unfathomable smirk of his and spirit Felix away for a proper tidying up.

Armed with a combination of ties, pins, and pomade, Glenn developed the perfect method for taming thick hair. It was mystifying how easy he made it seem, and Felix spent hours trying to emulate the technique, tying and untying until his arms ached from the strain of holding them up. Despite his best efforts, the end result never turned out as good as his brother’s.

This remained true even after Glenn’s death.

At the very least, Felix’s trial and error culminated in mastering a process all his own.

He puts those skills to the test, working his way across Dimitri’s hair section by section, until he can run his fingers through it without resistance.

Brushed out, Felix is surprised to find the strands smooth to the touch, like refined silk. He’s seen Dimitri’s washroom and knows he doesn’t use fancy conditioner or solutions. This texture must be one all his own.

Begrudging as it is to admit, Dimitri’s hair is beautiful, slipping from the teeth of the comb and pooling in the dip of his collarbone like liquid gold. A part of Felix is tempted to pull on his perfect locks, but he settles for mussing them up a bit before his final go over.

He leans over Dimitri’s shoulder to glance at his face and is irritated to find him nodding off. Felix contemplates several rude ways of waking him, but Dimitri stirs the next time fingers brush against the shell of his ear.

“Felix?” Dimitri shivers. “Your hands are cold.”

“I’m almost done,” Felix says. “Try not to pass out like that during the conference.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dimitri reassures. “Unless you plan on brushing my hair throughout?”

Felix barks out a laugh. “You wish.”

He moves on to tying Dimitri’s fringe back. Underneath it’s lustrous exterior his haircut is an appalling hack job; the multiple layers making Felix’s work all the more difficult. He’s puzzling out which pieces are long enough to pin when Dimitri clears his throat.

“I am, you know.”

Felix’s concentration breaks. “What?”

“I am– grateful, that is,” Dimitri stammers, locking eyes with Felix’s reflection. “For everything.”

Despite the glaring lack of nuance, this admission renders Felix speechless.

Dimitri has never been good with pretty turns of phrase, but he’s also never hesitated to speak his mind. Neither of them need to articulate this sentiment. In fact, Felix prefers things left unsaid. It’s nauseating how casually people manipulate words to suit their own interest, and if Felix had his way, everyone would say exactly what they meant and nothing more.

Instead of replying, he observes Dimitri’s anxious expression. No longer hidden under ridiculous amounts of hair, his face appears younger and strikingly vulnerable.

Felix brings his head level with Dimitri’s in the mirror and drops the few remaining strands to frame his face.

“There,” Felix says. “Now you almost look civilized.”

Actually, with his high cheekbones and sharp jaw out on display, he looks dashing— exactly as a king should. Felix did a damn fine job.

Dimitri seems to think so too, from the way his hand reaches up and hovers around his ponytail, like he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.

“It’s...Well, it’s perfect,” He turns his head to the side and their cheeks brush. “Thank you.”

“Keep your thanks.” Felix steps away a bit too fast to be casual. “We can’t have the king looking like a vagrant who stumbled in on a council meeting.”

Dimitri’s smile is strained. “You’re quite right. Regardless, I appreciate it.”

“Show your appreciation by hurrying up,” Felix mutters.

“I’m all set.” Dimitri stands, and Felix tilts his head to accommodate the change in height. He inspects Dimitri’s form, from the shine of his shoes to his inquisitive gaze.

Felix taps his own cheek. “You’ve forgotten something.”

Dimitri hesitates, mirroring Felix’s motion until his fingers trace his bare cheekbone. He hurriedly retrieves his eyepatch from the vanity table and fumbles to fasten it around his hair. It lays crooked so Felix eases close to steady Dimitri’s jaw and adjust it himself.

It’s excruciating.

Dimitri, ever patient with downcast eyes and rosy complexion, is so trusting of Felix’s ministrations. His fingers twitch and Dimitri glances up. Smiles. An urge rises within Felix, and he drowns it, swift and painless, snapping the forehead strap to make Dimitri wince.

These small cruelties exist for his own sanity.

He speaks before Dimitri can needlessly thank him. “We’re leaving. ”

“Felix,” Dimitri begins, then grows quiet. A full beat of silence passes and Felix gestures for him to continue. Brows furrowed, Dimitri regards him like he’s puzzling over a civic treatise written in foreign script. “Your hair is down today.”

Felix tenses. He’d forgotten— because he doesn’t care what Dimitri thinks. The tips of his hair traitorously brush his shoulders. “Yeah, so?”

Dimitri blinks, colors, and says, “It looks nice.”

It looks nice. An innocuous statement as far as compliments go; there’s no reason for Dimitri to lose his composure. Yet he’s shifting in place like he just blurted something indecent, and Felix can’t entirely blame his racing heart on the caffeine from earlier.

Rejecting the compliment is too much like validating this bizarre reaction, so Felix pulls his hair around one shoulder and mutters, “Flatterer.”

“You should wear it down more often. It suits you,” Dimitri says, pausing. “Of course, it also looks nice tied back! I like you either way– Ah, rather, I like both styles. Up or down is fine, you always look” —he coughs— “fine.”

“...I look fine,” Felix echoes.

“Yes,” Dimitri says, shoulders slumping.

Felix buries laughter under pure disbelief, speaking on impulse, “You look fine too. Sometimes. Not always.”

“Oh.” Dimitri turns bashful, covering a smile with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Felix says, turning on his heel to exit the room. “Really. Don’t.”

________________

Felix feels a headache coming on as soon as he passes the threshold to the conference room. Everyone is already seated, and they all turn to look, including Sylvain, who stage whispers something unintelligible before several people shush him.

Byleth is the one to approach, nodding a hello. “What kept you so long?”

“Damage control,” Felix says, narrowing his eyes. “Turns out you can’t call for a war council without heavily implying there is, in fact, a war to have council over.”

He’d had to reel in a whole company of knights ready to mobilize, ignorant of who or what they were fighting— which really says more about the kingdom’s ethos of blind devotion over logic than anything else.

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” Byleth says. “Threatening war really is a reliable way to get you all together.” Her face is inexpressive to the point where Felix can’t tell if she’s joking. She peers over his shoulder at Dimitri. “As I predicted, you brought His Majesty along. Good job.”

Why expect him to bring Dimitri? They were both running late, so she could have assumed they’d be together, but Felix received his summons before then. It doesn’t make sense. Unless, she predicted Felix would go straight to Dimitri in the first place, or that they were already together, which is—

Dimitri interrupts this train of thought and steps to Byleth’s side, brimming with the special admiration he reserves exclusively for her. “You have my thanks, Professor. How could I ever manage without you?”

“I think you’d be perfectly fine,” Byleth replies, shooting Felix a significant look he has no idea how to interpret. “Now, join the others so we may begin.”

Mercedes waves them over, her feather-light voice calling a greeting.

She drops her hand to her mouth in delight. “My! You’re so wonderfully put together today, Dimitri. Have you done something different with your hair?”

Dimitri rubs the back of his neck and tells her, “Felix did a splendid job of fixing it up for me.”

That exchange earns him an elbow to the ribs and stirs a commotion amongst their peers, though Dimitri seems baffled as to why.

Felix wishes he could be so oblivious. He suffers through several pointed comments all around before Byleth takes mercy on him and calls the room to attention.

“Alright,” she says, “my work here is done.” A woman of few words as always, Byleth presents this without elaboration and hands the floor over to Dimitri, who joins her at the head of the table.

“Everyone, thank you for being here,” he begins. “While I'm aware you were all summoned on dubious pretenses, I hope what I have in store will make it worthwhile.”

Dimitri surprises them all with his next announcement. He has set aside a day in about a month’s time for a small, in-house celebration saluting contributions made during the war. To commemorate the years they’ve known one another, he’s also arranged a private luncheon for the Blue Lions.

Annette raises her hand. “Ooh– like a potluck? I’d love to test out some new recipes!”

“Catering will be provided, though I encourage you to bring whatever you’d like,” Dimitri says, casting a look to Dedue, who nods as if to say he’ll handle the bulk of the cooking. Dimitri continues by thanking everyone for their efforts in restoring order to the kingdom, and goes on to remind them they are welcome to remain at the castle for as long as they wish. Wherever the road may take them, they always have a home with him. “Of course,” Dimitri adds, with patent humility, “you certainly aren’t obligated to stay in touch–”

Felix’s groan overlaps with Mercedes’s stern, “Come now, Dimitri”, and Dedue’s weary, “Your Majesty...”

“We’re not sick of you yet,” Byleth assures, patting Dimitri’s arm, and Felix would beg to differ— if he hadn’t been close to saying the same.

Dimitri’s natural ability to draw people under one cause gave hope where there was none. The Blue Lions reunited for their professor and stayed for their king.

Even so, Felix will be the first to say it’s time to move on.

Despite being adults, they’ve all become obnoxiously codependent. Spending both work and free time with his former classmates is too reminiscent of Garreg Mach for Felix’s peace of mind— especially when it’s clear how much has changed.

Felix glances to Dimitri’s large hands, at the scars around his knuckles. A lot has changed.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dimitri says, dipping his head. “I would like this to be a proper send off for those of us ready to explore greener pastures. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all again.”

Dimitri is misty-eyed when he sits, and Byleth regards him fondly.

“This is perfect timing,” Mercedes chimes in. “I’ll be leaving to start my clerical apprenticeship soon.”

“That is wonderful, Mercedes,” Dimitri says. “Then you’ll be able to attend?”

“Of course.” She looks around the room. “To me, the Blue Lions are family. Though we may go our separate ways, the Goddess’s light will surely guide us together again.”

Only because it’s her does Felix let himself feel moved.

Mercedes’s forthrightness brings the same out in others, and Annette is quick to follow, expressing a desire to oversee the reconciliation of her mother and father.

“I’m going to miss you all terribly,” she admits, her voice shaking.

Felix catches Dimitri thumbing at his eye, and is entirely too grateful when Ingrid saves the meeting from turning into a sob fest.

She nods towards Mercedes and Annette. “The drive you two possess is quite inspiring. I still plan to pursue knighthood, as has always been my dream, but before that…” she trails off, undoubtedly thinking of her father.

Sylvain interjects at that moment to assure them he’ll be supporting her with as much sway as his Maugrave title allows. “Also, if you need a plan B, I’m definitely not opposed to a marriage of convenience–”

Ingrid silences him with a glare, but a private huff of laughter betrayers her.

An air of finality is rapidly descending on the conversation, and the throbbing behind Felix’s eyes has yet to subside.

He presses his knuckles between his brows and tries to focus. Dimitri is speaking again, asking something, his voice a pleasant rumble breaking through the addled fog. Felix doesn’t realize the question is directed at him until he hears it a second time.

He pinches the inside of his wrist to center himself. “Come again?”

Dimitri frowns, and Dedue replies for him. “His Majesty asked about the shape of your future. Can you picture what form it might take?”

The strange wording of the question has Felix squinting. Beyond what’s expected of him, he hasn’t pictured anything noteworthy, and he says as much.

“Come on, Duke Fraldarius, you’ve gotta have some idea.” Sylvain nudges him with his shoulder and a stab of pain shoots through Felix’s temple.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You haven’t forfeited your title, have you?” Sylvain asks with mock astonishment. “Who’s going to braid His Majesty’s hair now?”

Felix bangs a hand on the table and Sylvain laughs, lifting his palms in surrender.

“It’s completely fine if you haven’t thought about it,” Ashe says, attempting to pacify the situation. “I know I haven’t.”

“I’ve thought about it plenty,” Felix lies and Ashe shrinks in his seat, crestfallen.

Her mood brought down by his outward hostility, Ingrid voices her reproval. “You’ve been Duke for almost a year, Felix. Shouldn’t you have incentive for the future by now?”

Felix feels dual surges of anger and shame, reminiscent of his adolescence. He pushes himself up from his seat, the rush of blood to his head nearly setting him off balance.

“My incentive,” he snaps, “is to act as Duke in the present. Not waste time chasing after an idiotic, fairytale notion of my idealized self.”

Felix immediately wants to take back his words as hurt washes over Ingrid’s face— but he doesn’t have time to consider an apology. She swiftly recovers and schools her features.

“Time waits for no one,” Ingrid cautions, her resolve steel as she absorbs his ire with poise befitting her station. “My aspirations steer the decisions I make in the present. You would do well to look past your pride and understand that.”

Everyone turns to him for a response.

Felix would like to say his piece, but he suddenly can’t think past the splitting pain in his skull. It creeps into his limbs, staggering him in place.

Ingrid’s stern expression dissolves to alarm. “Felix?”

“Are you alright?” Dimitri stands, and the concern etched into his every move is so physically repelling that Felix takes a step back. He grabs his chair for support against the deadening force threatening to drag him to the floor. His stomach lurches.

He’s going to throw up.

Without a word of warning, Felix dashes out of the room into the hall, just in time to pry open a window. Leaning over the sill, his throat and nose burn with an acrid, coffee flavor as he miserably heaves into a bed of petunias, fully regretting every choice that got him to this point.

Soon, someone is pulling his hair away from his face and rubbing soothing circles into his back. They’re speaking slow sentences he can’t understand.

Felix comes up for air and the walls spin. Okay, he thinks. Not good.

He shakes his head but the tilting worsens, and when he blinks his vision goes sandy. Trying to rub the spots away, Felix accidentally hits himself in the face. He doesn’t try again.

Felix’s name is being called, but it’s like his brain has cut connection with his eyes. The person beside him is left a random mass of blues, yellows and greys.

The ringing in his ears reaches a crescendo, and at the same moment, a great rush of sensation wrenches him into black.

________________

Felix passes in and out of consciousness for what feels like hours. Indistinct noises surround him, some loud, others hushed and urgent. One second, there are hands on his face and prodding at his ribs, the next he’s crashing under again.

He’s dragged awake at last by a crick in his neck.

Groggy and disoriented, Felix takes a minute to catalogue his surroundings. He’s lying prone on a sofa with a terrible taste in his mouth, his head cushioned on something too firm to be a pillow.

He blinks away the last shrouds of sleep.

Dimitri’s face blurs into view over him, hair falling forward like a curtain. The defeat in his gaze is so palpable Felix can feel it weighing down on him from above. He realizes belatedly his neck is resting on Dimitri’s thighs, and Dimitri’s eyepatch is missing— but he’s too exhausted to process either of these things.

With as much energy as he can muster, Felix lifts a hand to brush his knuckles from brow to cheek, down the jagged scar of Dimitri’s right eye.

“Such a wretched expression,” Felix says.

Dimitri tilts into the touch and breathes a long, shuddering sigh. It sounds like a prayer.

“You’re awake.”

“Where are we?” Felix reconsiders his question. “What time is it?”

“My study,” Dimitri replies, “and I’m not sure.”

“Useless.”

They’re silent after that.

Felix has no desire to move, and probably couldn’t if he wanted to. His sleepless nights have finally come to collect their debt. Every inch of him aches with bone deep weariness like he was trampled by an entire battalion.

Despite his exhaustion, the familiar edge of restlessness keeps him awake; that, and the strange way Dimitri is staring at him, as if he can’t conceive Felix is actually there.

He locks eyes with Dimitri.

They play a silent game, almost daring the other to look away first. Or maybe that’s Felix projecting. Either way, Dimitri is the one to break, clarity and a pink blush spreading slowly over his face.

“You were out for a handful of hours,” Dimitri says, unprompted. “Mercedes said it was fatigue. When put through large amounts of stress, the body cannot sustain itself so it” —he swallows— “shuts down.”

Shutting down sounds about right. Felix turns his head to the side, discomforted by the amount of attention he’s receiving. Letting himself be seen like this is worse than any physical pain.

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Do not trivialize this,” Dimitri says with a surprising amount of gravity. “Mercedes wanted to keep you under observation. It took all my effort to convince her against doing so because I knew you’d throw a fit.”

Felix grits his teeth. “How considerate.”

“You weren’t running a fever so she kept you out of the sickbay, but I’m beginning to think that’s where you belong.”

“We’re not having this conversation.” Felix tries to stand, but vertigo hits and Dimitri catches his waist just in time to keep him from face-planting into the cushions. “I’m fine.”

Too fast to protest, Dimitri wordlessly slips his other arm under Felix’s thighs, scoops him close to his chest, and places him upright in a nearby armchair.

Dimitri returns to the sofa without breaking a sweat.

It’s doubly humiliating that Dimitri thought to carry him less than a foot away.

“I want to understand,” Dimitri pleads, looking twice as stressed as Felix feels. “If you’re having trouble– with work or anything else– I want to be the person you tell.”

“I am telling you,” Felix says. “There’s nothing wrong.”

Dimitri shakes his head solemnly. “I would trust your judgement, were you able to stand on your own two feet.”

The longer Felix sits under scrutiny, the faster his will to resist dampens. He considers spilling himself to Dimitri, wonders if together they could pick apart every true thread from the tangled mess of doubt in his brain. He settles for, “I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

“Are your accommodations not suitable? We can easily organize a change of rooms–”

“My room is fine.” Felix scratches at the material of the settee, being purposely vague.

Dimitri adopts a tone usually reserved for small animals and monastery orphans.

“Have you been having nightmares?”

A twinge of aversion winds up Felix’s spine and he scoffs. “I’m not a child. ”

Dimitri wilts.

“Certainly not. I have bouts of them on occasion, so I thought I should ask.”

And now Felix has gone and made a complete ass of himself. What is he thinking, trying to save face in front of the one person who refuses to judge him.

“It’s not as if I never get nightmares,” Felix says, thinking of the bad dreams he had following Dimitri’s disappearance. “Lately, I don’t spend enough time asleep to warrant them. There’s been a lot of things on my mind.”

“What kinds of ‘things’?” Dimitri asks.

Felix rubs at his eyes, exasperated. “I don’t know! Work things. Family things. Just, things.”

Dimitri is quiet for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you remember what happened this time a year ago?” Felix has no desire to spell it out.

“A year ago?” Dimitri questions. “That period is a bit…hazy for me, but I believe we were preparing to march on Gronder. Which means–“ He stops, going pale. “Oh dear. I hadn’t realized–”

“That I cared about the anniversary of my father’s death?” Felix slumps back against the chair, sick of their conversation. “Took me by surprise too.”

He doesn’t simply miss the man’s company. It’s a combination of things. Dragging himself through the death dates of two family members marks Felix as the last living representation of his bloodline. As Ingrid said, sooner or later he has to decide what this means for his future.

“I was going to say, I hadn’t realized it’s already been a year.“ Dimitri hangs his head. “Which sounds rather insensitive of me now that I think about it.”

Felix can tell he’s affected by the news. Serves him right.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If this has been affecting you so viscerally that you’re losing sleep, it matters very much.”

“Since when did you become my keeper?” Felix sneers.

Dimitri reaches out as if to touch, but seems to change his mind halfway. He lets his hand rest in his lap. “Not your keeper, but a friend.”

Are they friends? The word brings up many connotations, none of which fit them well. Felix understands a friend as someone unconditional, but his association with Dimitri has been rife with conditions since they were teenagers.

Felix isn’t uncaring. He knows denying Dimitri’s friendship would be a step too far. Even so, to describe their relationship, ‘friends’ is at once too personal and completely lacking.

Felix waves a hand. “Like I said, it’s not just the family thing. As you might’ve realized, we’re not at war anymore. I’ve got responsibilities I can’t just swing my sword at.”

“You’d rather the opposite?” Dimitri asks.

Felix mulls that question over, wondering how much truth to disclose. “War is easy. There’s a definite goal. You wake up with it, spend your day working towards it, and go to bed envisioning it. Tomorrow exists until you either reach that goal, or perish.”

Dimitri listens intently, drinking in Felix’s words with elbows on his knees and his fingers interlocked. “That’s rather bleak.”

“Reality is bleak,” Felix says, tearing his gaze away. “No point being bitter about it.”

Dimitri hums, considering. “Why is it different now? If reality is as bleak as you say, why does it matter whether or not we’re at war?”

Why, indeed. The question has to be odd for someone devoting their entire life towards peace. Someone who has the power to cut through towards a peaceful future, with optimism and noble intent. Someone like Dimitri.

Felix puts up walls, tries to stay matter of fact, but raw honesty still slips out.

“It matters because by some twist of fate we survived.” He studies the swirling designs of the chair’s molding. Takes his time to find the right words. There aren’t many. “You’re alive. I’m not dead. We survived that last tomorrow, and now there is no goal. Which means I actually have to think about things– about living. I guess I haven’t figured out the right way to do that.”

He hasn’t spoken in depth about these thoughts before. Doing so is like carving out a piece of his soul and putting it on display.

A hand on his arm makes him jump.

“I understand,” Dimitri says quietly.

Felix feels uncomfortably transparent. He goes back and forth from Dimitri’s face, to where his fingers burn Felix’s forearm like a brand. “Which part?”

“For many years, I was a dead man walking,” Dimitri says. “Coming up from that state, I could not fathom how I was meant to live. I understand that it’s hard. Impossible, even.”

“Living is impossible,” Felix echos, incredulous. “What a positive message to send the public. Short enough to fit on fliers too.”

Dimitri smiles for the first time since Felix awoke, and he despises himself for acknowledging this.

“Living is subjective,” Dimitri continues. “There is no right way to live. However, there is a right way to survive.” He gazes down at their point of contact, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “Perhaps, in this life, the true goal is to survive with joy.”

...That.

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that.

Reconciling two halves of his life into one seamless whole— surviving and a chance at happiness. He would like for it to be that simple. He has to remind himself it’s not.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Felix says, wrenching his arm away.

Dimitri looks put off being forced out of Felix’s space. “A different mindset may help you destress.”

Felix rubs his wrist. “I don’t actually want to be so high strung, you know.”

“Have you tried searching for a solution? There are plenty of herbal remedies prescribed to aid sleep or ease racing thoughts,” Dimitri offers, probably speaking from experience. Felix has witnessed him cycle through an apothecary's worth of different concoctions.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Felix says.

That would mean admitting something is broken, and the last thing Felix needs is someone poking around in his life trying to fix him.

“I see...” Dimitri’s disappointment is worse than his concern. He draws back, briefly looking to his empty hand. “In any case, Mercedes recommended you take a couple sick days to let your body recover.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Felix immediately dismisses the thought.

“I agree. Which is why I’ve already let everyone know you’ll be off duty for the next three weeks.”

Three weeks.

The number is impossible to conceptualize. Dimitri was smart about it, telling people in advance. An effective trap. If Felix tries to pick up a pen or sword, someone will be there to call him out.

A final wave of exhaustion leaves Felix with no will to fight. “What am I expected to do?”

“Rest,” Dimitri says, standing. Felix braces himself to be manhandled again but Dimitri only offers to help him up. “I’ll take you to your room.”

They don’t speak the full walk back to his quarters.

________________

The beginning of Felix’s mandatory vacation isn’t terrible. He breaks a personal record, sleeping for a full thirteen hours the first day thanks to a combination of extreme fatigue and Mercedes’s special sleep-aid tea.

In the short span of time she spends brewing it for him, he’s fussed over enough to make up for his entire motherless childhood. The thinly veiled threat behind her sunny smile keeps him from raising a single complaint.

In the end, the tea does help calm him down, and Mercedes is happy to make up sachets so he can drink it whenever he wants.

A full night of rest translates to full days of energy he can’t expend. Essentially banned from training as an extension of his unlawful punishment, Felix spends an infuriating amount of the first week idle.

Thanks to word of mouth, possibly every person in the kingdom has been made aware of his condition. The nobility have taken to treating him like a withering count, sending letters hoping after his speedy recovery, along with useless gifts of candy and flowers.

Dimitri never disclosed the reason for Felix’s collapse, but that makes the situation worse. Kept in the dark, everyone insists on adding their two cents in on his physical health, his friends included. He expected as much from Ingrid, but amazingly, her and Sylvain band together to create an elaborate health presentation.

Their lecture jumps sporadically from eating square meals to the importance of safe sex. Felix wishes his previous fainting spell had slipped him into a coma. He’s sure half of Sylvain’s motivation is to mess with him, but the affectionate way he presses Felix’s arm afterwards has him wondering.

By the end of the week, boredom drives him to threaten the guards posted outside the armory when they won’t let him in. Lucky for them, Ashe happens to be passing by, and he pulls Felix away before a punch can be thrown.

Ashe listens to his plight and enthusiastically recommends Felix pick up a hobby to keep occupied. Felix thinks he has enough hobbies, but Ashe frowns when he offers the admittedly short list of training and hunting.

“What about when you want to relax?”

“Training relaxes me.”

“Uh, okay,” Ashe says, scratching his head. “How about finding a hobby that doesn’t require a lot of physical exertion?”

Felix is quick to confess, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

That’s how he ends up in the kitchen, puzzling over a recipe while Ashe and Annette cheer him on from the sidelines. Felix can cook— quick meals are essential to life on the battlefield after all— but he doesn’t see how such a mundane activity is supposed to entertain.

Annette flits around the room like a hummingbird, carrying a tune under her breath while Ashe dices carrots and talks out loud about his day. They’re both so at ease in this space; Felix almost feels like an intruder. Like someone plucked him from reality and dropped him into a scene from a children’s book.

Felix stumbles his way through baking a simple loaf of bread, sure he’s making a fool of himself, but Annette and Ashe praise his efforts without a hint of insincerity. Annette even improvises a ditty on the spot, drawing some metaphorical link between expert dough kneading and prowess with a sword.

She rhymes ‘flour’ with ‘power’ and Felix doesn’t bother hiding how much it pleases him.

The bread comes out edible, and they split it three ways. Enjoying the fruits of his labor, Felix realizes he actually liked baking. This takes him by surprise, as does Ashe’s follow up invitation to garden together, which Felix can find no reason to refuse.

As it happens, Felix has no patience for gardening and only succeeds in drowning two separate seed beds before Dedue calmly suspends his watering can privileges.

Having nothing better to do, he sticks around to watch Ashe and Dedue tend to the garden. They work in sync, practically oozing tranquility. If there was a way to bottle the residual effects, Felix could make a fortune selling them as a natural sedative.

He returns to his chambers more relaxed than he’s felt in months.

Felix eventually accompanies each member of the Blue Lions in a hobby of their choice. He reads stifling non-fiction in the library with Sylvain, nods off in his chair waiting for fish to bite with Ingrid, and pricks his fingers to death knitting with Mercedes. These activities aren’t his idea of a good time, but he comes away from each one refreshed, like a well within him that ran dry is being filled again bit by bit.

At the very least, it takes his mind off things. The anniversary he dreaded comes and goes, leaving only a shadowed imprint of what could have been a violent upset of his psyche.

It helps that Sylvain and Ingrid treat him to drinks.

Strictly speaking, Sylvain shows up outside his door with two bottles of wine, and Ingrid joins them shortly after. She scrunches her nose at the alcohol, but rather than make a sharp remark about coping mechanisms, she simply shrugs and pours herself a glass.

Felix isn’t nearly drunk enough to excuse himself when he inevitably asks after Dimitri.

Sylvain and Ingrid roll their eyes in tandem. Felix wonders if they practiced.

He is handed a cream envelope, embossed with a golden sigil. The formality of it is foreboding enough to sober Felix up, but the letter’s contents aren’t worth two seconds of clarity.

Dimitri’s handwriting is rushed, the words smeared in places where his hand passed over wet ink, and Felix struggles to skim his barely legible penmanship. Piecing together all he can from the fragments, Felix gradually recognizes the note for what it is.

An apology.

Dimitri laments missing —as is underlined with bold strokes— such an important day, apologizes for his absence due to work obligations, and sends warm regards in place of his presence. There is a slash after obligations and a followup word beginning with “s”, but whatever was written has been crossed out.

The note is terribly haphazard. Felix tries to drum up an appropriate amount of irritation but there’s only a numb feeling. He can’t hold it against Dimitri. Afterall, he has a kingdom to run, and they’re barely on speaking terms as is. It would’ve been worse for him to show up in person. Probably.

The bottom lines are completely scribbled over. Curious, Felix tilts the paper towards the light and is able to make out a few phrases.

Felix…wanted you to know...lasting regret…missed dearly…if I may…your forgiveness.

His chest aches. The letter is as sincere as it is misguided.

Felix wonders what parts of it Dimitri could say to his face.

________________

They run into one another outside the kitchen.

Half through the doorway, Dimitri startles, assorted pastries and strips of cured meat tumbling from his hold.

Felix is frozen, struck by the flicker of fear he sees twist Dimitri’s features. He completely forgets Annette is at his side until she brings him back to the present with a dismayed gasp.

She crouches down to pile up the crumbling snacks as if there’s any hope of salvaging them. Dimitri follows suit, joining Annette on the floor and stammering out a string of apologies while Felix stands by dumbly and watches.

Once the food has been dumped in the kitchen’s bin, Felix regains enough sense to be confused. There’s no shortage of people who wouldn’t bend over backwards to fetch meals for the king. Felix wonders why Dimitri would opt to binge on junk instead.

He wants to ask, but Dimitri is turned away, his gaze trailing to Felix every so often, and Felix can’t force his question through his nerves.

Annette breaks the silence, nodding towards the trash.

“Were those all for you, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri stumbles halfway through a blatant lie before Felix cuts him off, rushing the words out so he doesn’t overthink them. “If you’re hungry, we’re making food.”

It’s not exactly an offer, but he still gets the satisfaction of watching Dimitri’s face go slack in surprise.

“You would cook for me?” Dimitri asks, as if Felix just offered to make him meals for the rest of his life.

“We were going to anyway,” Felix says brusquely. “You can have leftovers.”

Annette claps her hands together. “Great idea! That way nothing goes to waste.”

Her enthusiasm pushes things along, and soon Felix is busy preparing a hearty beef stew. Annette lets him work with the fire and knives, fetching ingredients for him and mixing together a marinade for the meat.

Dimitri sits nearby trying and failing to fit his long limbs onto a wooden stool. His manner is distracted, attention wandering around and always coming back to a focal point behind Felix’s head, like he doesn’t want to be caught staring.

The next time Dimitri looks his way, Felix stops chopping vegetables and raises a brow in acknowledgment.

Dimitri gives him a tentative smile.

Tension still lingers between them, but Annette’s presence and the cozy atmosphere of the kitchen have Felix more than willing to lighten up. Though he doesn’t speak, the side of his mouth lifts in return.

Unaware of their worldless exchange, Annette chatters about the importance of not relying on snacks to make up for skipped meals. When Felix questions her own strong penchant for sweets, she pouts and socks his arm.

That jolts laughter from Dimitri, which morphs into a cough as soon as Annette turns her glare to him.

“I don’t expect a couple of men to understand.” She huffs and shows them her back, marching to the cabinets to pick out tableware.

A thread of amusement passes between Dimitri and Felix when their gazes meet again, and Felix realizes he’s missed this, the ease of communicating without words. Dimitri doesn’t demand conversation from him. He doesn’t need to when he can read a novel’s worth of meaning off Felix’s body language alone. Dimitri is good at catching Felix’s cues and soothing the brunt of his language.

It’s something Felix takes for granted, until Dimitri isn’t around to interpret.

The stew is nearly finished when Felix notices Dimitri’s brow is furrowed, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on his knee. His eye follows Felix’s hands stirring in seasoning, and he grows more agitated when Felix shakes in some dried herbs from an unlabeled container.

Felix taps the edge of the pot to get Dimitri’s attention.

“You don’t have to look so worried,” he says, attempting to alleviate the mood. “I’m not lacing it with poison.”

Dimitri lurches back and falls off his stool— and Felix drops his spoon in shock, splattering food across the floor.

Annette is with them in an instant, but he barely registers her panicked questions. His focus is locked on Dimitri, now upright, a hand braced against his head. Something desperate flashes across his face so quickly Felix may have imagined it, but he doesn’t imagine the way Dimitri glances at the pot like it’s filled with acid.

Dimitri pulls himself together and apologizes. He’s had a busy week. He’s been getting headaches. He just remembered he’s late for a meeting and unfortunately can’t stay to dine.

Annette is obviously dissapointed, but she still pushes a bowl of stew into Dimitri’s hands. “Take care of yourself, Your Majesty.”

“You as well,” Dimitri says, and turns to Felix. “Let us talk soon. Whenever you’re free.”

“I’m always free,” Felix means to sound casual but instead comes off disgruntled.

As Dimitri bids them farewell, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

________________

If Dimitri made himself scarce before, he practically vanishes into thin air with the start of the new week.

Asking around about Dimitri’s whereabouts nets him nothing but shrugs. By the second night, Felix is sure he’s being avoided and the entire castle is in on it. Only once people start coming to him with the same question does Felix let go of this worry.

However, it still doesn’t sit right.

Felix is hesitant to confide in anyone, in case he really is overreacting, but whether it be instinct or plain impatience, he doesn’t think the urge over long before he’s heading in the direction of Dimitri’s quarters.

Reaffirming his suspicions that something is very wrong, he finds Dedue standing sentry outside the bedroom door.

Felix stalks up to him in an attempt to appear threatening— not an easy feat when he’s dwarfed in both height and muscle mass.

Dedue is suitably unimpressed.

“If you are here for His Majesty, he is unable to take visitors at this time.”

Not unwilling but unable. The knife of anxiety digs harder into Felix’s gut.

“Don’t give me that pre-rehearsed drivel,” Felix snaps. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of the beast in days. What’s really going on?”

“Exactly as I have said. He is indisposed and resting.”

A muffled crash comes from behind the door and Dedue closes his eyes as if pained.

“Sounds like he’s getting plenty of rest.” Felix attempts to shoulder past, but a heavy arm blocks his path. “If you think you can stop me–”

“This is unwise.” The trepidation in Dedue’s voice makes Felix pause.

Looking closely, he realizes Dedue is curiously disheveled. His usual pristine ponytail loose a few strands, the badge he keeps clipped at his breast absent and flecks of what can only be blood staining the white fur of his collar. This last detail transforms Felix’s agitation into confusion.

Felix retreats a respectable distance and tilts his chin up. “Why?”

“Dimitri is not well,” Dedue says.

Hearing Dimitri’s given name is startling enough for Felix to reassess the situation and shake off his antagonism. If he’s being honest, Felix knows Dedue’s temperament. Only the most harrowing circumstances would make him lose his composure.

“Tell me what’s going on.” Felix adds a grumbled “please” as an afterthought.

“In the past,” Dedue begins, “His Majesty has had trouble maintaining a grasp on reality.”

“I’m aware.” Felix should know best. After all, hadn’t he always claimed to recognize Dimitri for what he really was? For his wavering lucidity and astounding brutality. For the cracks that slipped through during battle all those years ago, and even nights at the monastery, kept awake by Dimitri’s one-sided conversations the next room over.

“He appeared to have been substantially freed from this ailment after–” Dedue pauses, and Felix can’t help but roll his eyes.

“After my old man kicked it. I was there, remember?” Tiptoeing around death is pointless and the disapproving look he gets for this comment only makes him squirm a little. Really. “Okay– whatever. Sorry. But what has this got to do with anything?”

“It was wrong of us to assume His Majesty had miraculously recovered, despite how it may have looked from an outside perspective. He has always been very good at concealing parts of himself he considers unsavory.” Dedue gazes forlorn at the shut door as if he can see Dimitri through it. “That is, when he is of sound enough mind to do so.”

With that note, many things click into place for Felix. Dimitri’s recent skittish behavior, his clouded judgement and vacant stare. Looking back, all the red flags were standing for Felix at full mast, and he has nothing but his own willful ignorance to blame for not recognizing them.

Since the war ended— Since they were children and the abject horrors of the world were laid out for them on a bloody platter, Dimitri had not been well. Perhaps the reality was, he would never be completely well again.

Even so, this level of detachment, being driven to isolation, is an extreme he’d thought Dimitri had overcome.

“What could’ve brought this on?” Felix wonders, mostly to himself.

Dedue winces.

“I have an idea as to why,” he says, hesitating. ”You may not like it.”

Felix is inclined to state that he isn’t a child and hates to be coddled like one, but he opts to be civil. “Whatever it is, I need to know so I can help. If it’s a burden on me, I’ll deal with it.”

Dedue considers him, then nods. For all the reassurance he gives, Felix is still unprepared for the truth as it’s presented.

“I believe this particular bout began around the time you collapsed,” Dedue tells him. “I am not sure you realize to what extent that incident disturbed His Majesty.”

“Not this again,” Felix groans. “I’ve sustained life threatening injuries and never gotten this much grief for them.”

Dedue raises a brow at ‘life threatening’ but lets Felix finish before he continues. “From his perspective, one moment you were fine, the next you lay unconscious in his arms. All at once he was rendered powerless.”

What a way to phrase a bout of sleep deprivation.

“That wasn’t his fault,” Felix replies, nonplussed.

“In his mind, he failed to keep you safe.”

“Did he tell you this?”

Dedue shakes his head. “He did not have to. Seeing you in that state may have had somewhat of an opposite effect than the one caused by the death of Lord Rodrigue. You are his last Fraldarius.”

And what can Felix say to that? Of course Dimitri would twist him into some paragon of his family’s house, a convenient excuse to neglect his own well being for the sake of another. Without noticing, Felix fell head first into the role of his father and brother before him.

“He couldn’t have just worried himself into a downward spiral,” Felix says.

“No,” Dedue agrees. “His declining health most likely stems from overworking himself to reprieve you of your duties. After that day, he started fielding all inquiries assigned in your name to his own backlog. He had begun to fade by the time I discovered this.”

That would explain the weeks of no work.

Felix rubs the space between his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “So he’s a moron. What else is new.”

Dedue’s troubled sigh belies his layers of patience.

“Unfortunately, I must concur. He cares about you very much.”

“Does he? Or does he care for the idea of me.” Felix doesn’t want to sound so bitter, but it’s hard not to while lugging around an entire generation’s worth of baggage.

“He cares about you very much,” Dedue repeats, more firmly this time. “Do not mistake poor reasoning for a lack of sincerity. There is nothing he would not do for you, not because of what you represent, but because of what you are to him.”

“And that is?”

“What he needs you to be.”

Felix could spend the next hour trying to interpret that bewildering claim and how it makes his throat tighten, but everything falls away at the sound of shattering glass.

Dedue goes pale, but his reluctance to check on the noise leads Felix to believe it’s just one of many he’s had to wait out. Somehow, that isn’t reassuring.

“Right now, I need to be in there” —Felix tilts his head towards the door— “with him.”

“His Majesty is more a danger to himself than others, but he remains unpredictable. Will you be able to de-escalate the situation if need be? You are not exactly known for your patience.”

It’s a fair question and not intended to offend, but Felix still has to will his hackles not to rise. The last thing he needs is to snap and prove Dedue’s statement true.

“I can restrain myself if you can refrain from stepping in.”

Dedue frowns, protests at the ready. “It is my obligation–”

“Two people could be overwhelming for him,” Felix clarifies. “Besides, how much longer did you plan to play watchdog? Have you slept at all since the boar receded into his cave?”

Dedue’s hesitation is answer enough, but he eventually responds, “How I am is irrelevant.”

Abandoning the concept of self preservation is, at this point, a precondition to life in Faerghus. Felix doesn’t have to feign one drop of his disgust.

“Do you really think that’s what Dimitri wants? For you to run yourself into the ground?” Felix crosses his arms. “You think that’s what I want?”

His impulsive words leave a bad taste in his mouth, but they also cause a change in Dedue’s tense posture. He studies Felix like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“I was not aware you had an opinion on my wellbeing.”

An itch crawls up the back of Felix’s neck. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it. Without you that idiot would be ten times more unbearable than he already is. If you keeled over I’d be inconvenienced.”

Dedue’s mouth quirks into a small smile. “I am nowhere near to doing so.”

“Get some rest,” Felix says, “or else I’ll have you face criminal punishment.”

“In that case,” Dedue places a hand over his heart and bows in an exaggerated manner. When he straightens, his amusement turns serious. “Will you truly be alright?”

If Felix were a lesser man, he would have Dedue assist him through this potentially dangerous task. But he can’t afford to be less than he is— less than Dimitri needs.

Felix puts his hands on his hips. “By this time tomorrow, he’ll be managing a kingdom, you’ll be waiting on him hand and foot, and I'll be imbibing enough alcohol to erase this day from my memory.”

Felix doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore.

“I look forward to the first two, at least,” Dedue says, bowing once more. “And Felix. Try to remember. While the Dimitri in there is not himself, he is also the most honest version of His Majesty you may ever meet.”

With that ominous warning, Dedue departs.

Felix’s determination rises as he faces the door and raps twice against the wood, turning the handle to Dimitri’s bedroom.

Stepping inside, the light from the hallway briefly illuminates the scene. All the furniture looks to have been toppled, a few with visible grooves scored into the veneer as if raked by the claws of a wild animal. Felix doesn’t linger on that mental image, shutting the door behind him.

As his eyes adjust, he can almost make out a hulking form nested amongst the blankets of the canopy bed.

“Guess he tired himself out,” Felix mutters, somewhat relieved.

He picks his way through the mess, broken glass crunching under his boots. What little light seeps into the room, bounces off the spiral cracks of what was once the vanity mirror. Felix barely spares it a glance, unsettled by his own warped reflection.

Standing before the foot of the bed, he recognizes the fur cloak bunched atop twisted sheets. He pulls them aside, but Dimitri isn’t underneath

Felix tenses.

All at once, a staggering force shoves him against a wooden support beam, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Dimitri is there, towering over him, and Felix really should have seen this coming. He curses and Dimitri’s hand comes up and grabs at his throat.

“Silence,” Dimitri growls, pressing close. “Who dares trespass on my domain?”

Already breaking out the thearetics. Felix wishes he had the breath to laugh.

“Screw up your left eye too?” Felix struggles to speak, reaching forward to ghost his fingers along the line of Dimitri’s temple. “Is that why you don’t recognize me?”

Dimitri freezes at the touch, something like clarity flickering in his gaze, and the pressure on Felix’s neck eases.

“Be still,” Dimitri murmurs, and that’s all the warning Felix gets before Dimitri is swooping in to nose at his collarbone.

Felix’s thoughts go haywire. He’ll rip out your throat.

Dimitri just takes several deep breaths. He pulls down the fabric of Felix’s turtleneck to get at skin, inhaling there too, and it finally clicks:

Dimitri is getting his scent.

“Unbelievable,” Felix feels heat blaze across his face. “You really are a beast.”

Dimitri either ignores or doesn’t register the insult, adjusting so he can nudge aside Felix’s cheek and sniff his hair. The whole process is highly demeaning, but it’s better than being choked out. Felix can only grumble and let it happen.

A lifetime later, Dimitri rests his chin on Felix’s head and sighs. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.” Felix clumsily returns the embrace. “Smelling the same as always, I guess.”

“It’s really you,” Dimitri repeats, with out of place reverence. “Glenn...”

Felix pulls back as if burned.

“How dare you?” he snarls, the words coming from deep in his chest. His brother’s name hits harder than a blow, twisting panic between his ribcage. “I should kill you where you stand and take us both out of our misery.”

Dimitri blinks at him. Shakes his head and rubs at his eye. “Felix? What are you doing here?”

The genuine confusion in his voice has Felix faltering. Fury still hums under his skin, but it grows less and less potent the longer he looks at Dimitri. The tired wilt of his shoulders confirms what Felix already knew. Dimitri is sick. Sick enough to mistake him for Glenn, which is worse off than he’s been in at least a year.

And Felix just chewed him out like they’re both still teenagers.

“I came to check on you,” Felix says, rather lamely.

Dimitri frowns. “That’s no good. You’re going to get in trouble.”

“What?”

“The Professor won’t like it if you skip class again.”

Dimitri’s voice is chiding, eerily reminiscent of his younger self, and Felix can admit he’s out of his depth.

He’s never dealt with Dimitri’s episodes one on one— never had to with Dedue and Byleth around. Playing along with these delusions or refuting them, either choice could lead to disaster.

“Are you, um, skipping too?” Felix questions, testing the waters. “Or is the king exempt from that sort of thing?”

Dimitri pauses, caught off guard. “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Imperial spies.” He spits the words like they’re rotten. “They’ve infested this entire place. I’ve found remnants of their foul magic from here to the training grounds. It’s only a matter of time before they reveal themselves.”

Despite wanting to shoot this down, Felix keeps his voice measured. “Have you asked Mercedes or Annette to trace the origin?”

Dimitri is looking less sure of himself. “I’m the only one who can sense it.”

“You’ve gained a sudden affinity for reason magic, then,” Felix presses, trying to highlight the holes in his logic.

Dimitri’s gaze flicks around the room, tracking something unseen. “I don’t– no.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, no, no,” He covers an ear with his palm and bats at thin air. “It’s much too loud in here.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“...I suppose you wouldn’t,” Dimitri says, slumping down on the mattress and dragging a hand over his face. “You really should not have come.” His body no longer drawn stiff with paranoia, exhaustion radiates off Dimitri in waves.

They’ve passed the first hurdle.

Felix sighs. “I’ll go wherever I please. Though I can’t say it’s a pleasure to be standing here in the dark.”

“Check in there,” Dimitri says, gesturing to an upturned nightstand.

Felix does as he’s told, recovering flint and one half-melted candle. Igniting on first try, the weak flame is then transferred to an overhead sconce.

“You look like shit.” Felix’s pulse quickens as he haltingly drops down on the bed next to Dimitri. The flickering light distorts his face, darkening the deep set bags under his eye and highlighting the sickly pallor of his skin. Where his rumpled shirt sleeves are rolled up, there are a series of thin, red lines, like he’s been scratching his arms.

“I feel about the same.” Dimitri’s gaze is thoughtful as it roves over Felix’s body, unabashed in a way he knows Dimitri would never normally act. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Felix starts. “And you’re delirious.”

“True. You could also be a figment of my imagination.”

Worse than being forgotten, the idea of nonexistence in Dimitri’s world burns like swallowing hot coals. Against his better judgement, Felix pinches Dimitri’s cheek.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m real.” He’s encroaching on a wounded beast and risking the hand he holds out, if not in understanding then as a test of faith. “Why did you hide this– this–”

“Madness?” Dimitri supplies. “I couldn’t afford a public relapse. What sort of king can’t retain his own sanity?”

“This is about your ego,” Felix says, his voice flat.

Dimitri looks down, ashamed. “I’m afraid so.”

Felix is struck by how unselfaware Dimitri really is.

“Then why make it worse taking on all my duties?” he asks, putting the truth out in the open.

Dimitri twists sheets under his hands. “You knew?”

“Not until today,” Felix continues. “It’s hard to believe you aren’t questioning my competence when you went out of your way to keep this from me.”

“You’re extremely capable,” Dimitri assures him, worrying at his lip. “And I rely on you far too much. I had to lift some of that burden.”

“Because you felt responsible?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri’s line of logic is one Felix surmised on his own, but hearing it outloud still has him livid.

He gives Dimitri a blank look. “Are you aware how absurd you sound right now?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Dimitri sighs, like a parent fed up with their unruly child.

“Yes. I will,” Felix snaps. “Because I’m stuck here, listening to you moan about lifting my burdens as if it’s your divine right.”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak so candidly.” Dimitri massages his temple. “You fainted from a combination of stressors– work was the simplest one to address. What else would you have had me do?”

“Ask!” Felix throws up his hands, unable to restrain himself. “I’d’ve had you ask what I wanted, rather than robbing me of a decision.”

“Can’t you see that I tried?” Dimitri pleads. “From the start you had no intention of admitting something was bothering you.”

Felix can only shake his head.

“You didn’t try. You acted impulsively, like you always do, and disregarded my wishes.”

With every word Dimitri retreats further and further into himself, his fingers scratching at his wrist, and his eye glassy with unshed tears. He blinks them away. “You wouldn’t have told me.”

“I didn’t want to acknowledge my problem,” Felix admits, ”but you still chose to act before hearing me out. You created your own explanation, and your own solution.”

“I was just trying to help…”

“How do you expect to help others when you can’t even help yourself?” The question is swallowed by silence. Dimitri isn’t present in the conversation anymore, staring at a far off point to the left. Felix snaps his fingers in front of Dimitri’s face. “Are you even listening?”

Dimitri jumps, but doesn’t look away. “You aren’t the only one speaking.”

A chill goes down Felix’s spine. He follows Dimitri’s line of sight to an empty corner of the room.

“I’m the only one here.”

“I know,” Dimitri says, sounding unsure. “The hallucinations come and go.”

Felix frowns. “What are they saying?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I should answer that.”

“Why not?” Felix asks.

Dimitri wrings his hands together.

“You’ll hate me.”

His quiet voice douses the cold fire in Felix’s chest.

Based off what Dimitri let slip during the war, it makes sense he’d be hesitant to detail his delusions and potentially face judgement. The admission must take away some level of his control.

Dimitri’s breath has gone shallow, and Felix can think of only one thing to do.

A hand hovering over Dimitri’s arm makes his intentions clear. When Dimitri doesn’t flinch away, Felix follows through, his palm sliding along skin, all the way up to where shoulder meets collarbone.

Dimitri shudders, sinking into Felix’s side, head coming to rest at the crook of Felix’s neck.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Felix says. “You don’t have to do things you’d rather not.”

Dimitri’s laughs weakly. “Is that so?”

Felix is hyper aware of every motion he makes. He turns to speak softly into Dimitri’s ear. “I want you to listen to my voice and mine alone. Can you do that?”

Dimitri runs a finger along the seam of Felix’s sweater. “Yes.”

“When you made me give up work and training, I was upset.” Felix mentally frames his next sentence. “I felt...useless. Take away my sword and title– what’s left?”

“You’re not useless–”

“Let me finish.”

“Sorry,” Dimitri mumbles, and Felix pats his head.

“For a long time,” he continues, “I avoided that question. I was scared of the answer. Turns out, it’s that I’m a terrible gardener and hopeless at knitting.”

Dimitri is now drawing shapes into Felix’s chest. “I don’t follow.”

“I shouldn’t have to justify my existence,” Felix says with conviction. “It’s enough that I’m able to guarantee another’s well-being. I don’t need a title or a sword to accomplish that.” He recalls how it felt to cook for Dimitri, the act important in its simplicity. “ ‘No one can serve from an empty pot.’ Have you heard that before?”

“It sounds like common sense.”

“It’s a metaphor.” Felix gestures vaguely. “If your pot is empty, you can’t serve from it. If you want to provide for others, you have to take care of yourself first.”

Dimitri gives a one armed shrug. “I’m not sure I know how.”

Felix was prepared for this.

He pushes Dimitri away by his shoulders and looks him squarely in the eye. “Then I’ll show you how.”

Dimitri’s lashes flutter, his face pinched. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“You can’t continue piling all the world’s troubles on top of your own,” Felix says. “That’s why I’m giving you permission to rely on me. ”

“You know It’s not that simple.” Dimitri protests.

“Trust me, I know you’ll always be a self-sacrificing fool.” Felix hugs Dimitri close again, tugging the threads of his eyepatch loose. “I’m saying that I accept it. No matter what you were, what you are or what you become. I won’t hate you– I don’t.”

Perhaps, he never did.

Dimitri swallows thickly and Felix can see the edge of the precipice. “I don’t deserve–”

Felix shushes him. Their back and forth is tiring, and he can’t pretend he’s anywhere else. Not with the very real weight braced fully against him, and the hot puffs of air hitting his ear.

The rush starts slow.

Dimitri takes a ragged breath. Shuddering on the exhale. His shoulders hunch and Felix feels droplets on his neck.

Frustration wells hot in Felix’s stomach. He fists a hand in the golden mass of Dimitri’s hair and snaps, “Just cry already.”

Dimitri’s breath hitches. Like a dam being felled, he crumbles under the burden of long restrained sorrow, and Felix steadies him against the violent sobs that rack his body.

Neither a tragic prince, inspiring king nor violent beast, stripped of these titles, what remains is only a man.

Only Dimitri.

Felix won’t pretend he knows the best way to comfort someone. Any memory of the practice is sequestered amongst his oldest memories, filtered through the rosey lens of childhood. He can’t translate across time the soothing touch of his brother tending to an injury, nor does he wish to try and replicate the excessive pampering Dimitri surely received as the crown prince.

Felix once understood how to treat his own wounds. To burrow underneath and cut out every festering bit of pain until all that remained were gaping voids. Voids he chose to fill with enough rage to get himself out of bed every morning.

Even if his anger did flare between the gaps, burning those around him was a small price to pay.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

It’s beyond the tacky idea of reaching a moral high ground. Felix really couldn’t care less. Instead, he no longer allows himself to walk the easy road of detachment because there are people he’s pledged his life to protect. One of whom is falling apart at the seams right in front of him.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” Dimitri moans the phrase over and over like a mantra, gripping the hem of Felix’s sweater like he’s six again, shaken by a simple night terror.

Felix doesn’t bother accepting the apology. He holds Dimitri close, until all his tears are spent, and his forehead rests lax on Felix’s shoulder.

In his peripheral vision, Dimitri’s hair glows like amber, and a crystal image unwittingly presents itself: The two of them in one space across time. From childhood, to adolescence, to where they now sit, all grown up with nothing to show for their years besides shared trauma and matching sets of blood stained hands.

Preserved in golden stone, they’ve somehow remained whole.

Brushing a kiss to Dimitri’s crown, Felix speaks in a tone he doesn’t recognize.

“You’re heavy.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says, and pushes him down.

Felix goes without fuss, letting Dimitri firmly pin him against a feather pillow, forearms braced by the sides of his head. He tests the hold on his arms and is unsurprised to find them locked in place. While Dimitri’s grip isn’t painful, Felix couldn’t break free if he tried.

“Finally going to have your way with me?” It’s meant to be a jab, but the sentence comes out low, without any bite.

“Felix…” Dimitri breathes his name once more, reverent and weary.

He feels like a third party to the events as they unfold, watching everything from an outside perspective. Like the frozen victim of a macabre painting, Felix lies supine in the dark, threatened by a monster conjured from the depths of an artist’s nightmare.

But that’s not right.

Bent over him, Dimitri should be frightening, his face shadowed, strength absolute and intentions unclear— but he’s not.

Felix has never been scared of him.

There’s anticipation, but for what, Felix can’t say. Dimitri’s touch confines him to the present, a steel jaw trap without any teeth.

Time slows as Dimitri leans closer still, adjusting his weight, aligning his body— and calmly laying his head on Felix’s chest.

Felix blinks up at the canopy of the bed. “Um.”

“I’m very tired,” Dimitri sighs.

“Goddess, you’re–” Pathetic. Pitiable. Soft. He flexes his wrists and Dimitri takes the hint, finally letting go. “What do you want me to do?”

Dimitri’s cheek is warm, his hair tickling Felix’s collarbone.

“Stay.”

The last of Felix’s resolve evaporates into nothing.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he mutters, mindlessly stroking Dimitri’s head.

“That’s good.” Dimitri stifles a yawn against Felix’s sweater. “I’m glad you came.”

Felix is glad too.

Lying still, his thoughts begin to drift, catching on wisps of ideas and fragments of unease. Whenever Felix comes close to anxiety, Dimitri will shift against him, a grounding shape in his reality. The irony of Dimitri fulfilling that role isn’t lost on him.

Dedue’s words come to mind, and in a burst of spontaneity, Felix asks, “What am I to you?”

Silence stretches so long, he thinks Dimitri might have fallen asleep but when Felix glances down, brilliant, blue eyes shine back at him like he’s something to be worshipped.

“You’re Felix,” Dimitri says.

Between the lines, a strong sentiment is still decipherable.

That’s more than enough.

________________

It takes several days to nurse Dimitri back to a comfortable baseline.

Felix and Dedue alternate shifts, making for a surprisingly functional team. Put simply, Dedue cooks Dimitri’s meals, while Felix is the one who actually gets him to eat.

Dimitri returns to his station shortly thereafter, as if he’d been briefly laid up with a cold.

Felix’s mandatory bedrest is also lifted, and he’s quick to pick up his old routine— now with the added benefit of a proper sleep schedule. He doesn’t realize the difference this makes, until one morning he finds himself declining the cup of black coffee Sylvain holds out to him.

“I thought you lived off this stuff,” Sylvain says, having a sip and scrunching his nose at the taste.

Felix takes the mug from Sylvain’s hands and wordlessly pours its contents into a nearby potted plant.

It gets the point across. Sylvain’s grin is wide and relieved.

Felix would like to think things have changed for the better. Though, predictably, there’s one problem that still needs solving.

He quickly recognizes the signs in the awkward slant of their interactions. How Dimitri will watch him with unwarranted intent, decline Felix’s offers of company, and fabricate excuses that Felix is quick to wave away.

Dimitri is holding him at arm’s length.

If this is how they’re meant to stay, so be it. Felix tells himself this whenever he starts to feel disheartened.

Their relationship is undefined— fleeting like the shadows that flicker in the corner of Felix’s vision after long hours of training. If he wanted, he could try and reach out, but there’s no guarantee his fingers would grasp anything tangible.

The longer they avoid addressing whatever hangs in the air, the more life starts to feel like a continuous held breath.

Felix is so wound up, he completely overlooks the celebration planned for the end of the month.

After taking an early morning trek to clear his head, he returns to empty corridors and echoes of a live orchestra from the great hall. With no interest in joining the festivities and a few hours to kill before the Blue Lions’ gathering, Felix heads to his room, happy to avoid the worst of the commotion.

Finding his door unlocked dashes this happiness against the rocks.

He pats his side pocket, and sure enough, a key digs into his palm.

The image of a silent killer lying in wait flashes through his mind’s eye, but he dismisses it. A discreet twist of the doorknob reaffirms the lock is broken, and any assassin worth their salt knows not to leave obvious signs of entry.

He readies his knife anyway, closing one hand over the knob and swinging the door open.

A baffling few seconds pass where Felix is convinced an animal has found its way into the castle and taken up residence in the middle of his room. Then, he registers the familiar crown of blond hair and realizes what he thought was some kind of wild beast, is in fact Dimitri, wearing his signature fur cloak with his back to the entryway.

The door bangs shut, but Dimitri doesn’t turn to face him. The only sign he gives acknowledging Felix’s presence is in the slight curve of his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Felix asks.

“I needed to see you,” Dimitri replies, speaking to the back wall.

“So you broke into my room?”

“I broke your lock. By accident.”

Felix will have to fix it later. He drops his arm, confusion giving way to annoyance.

“This whole day was your idea. I’m surprised you're not off hosting.”

“I needed to see you,” Dimitri repeats.

“You’re not seeing me at all. Turn around.” Dimitri doesn’t budge, and Felix strides forward to pull at his furs. “Are you deaf? Turn. Around.”

Dimitri ignores his command. “We need to talk.”

Dread drops onto Felix’s shoulders, but it’s overpowered by the hurt that has unknowingly been growing inside him for days.

He laughs once, the sound cut off. “And here I thought you were content to dance around your issues until they ceased to be.”

“You’re not an issue.”

Felix’s face, eyes and throat are burning. “You’ve done your best to make me one.”

Dimitri’s stoicness cracks, and with a heavy voice he replies, “Can we talk, Felix? Please?”

The anger flares and fizzles out like a smothered ember. Emptiness is left in its wake and Felix has nothing to say.

He’s tired.

No one can blame him if Dimitri’s back looks especially broad, or his cloak especially warm, his solid form an especially perfect place for Felix to rest his head. His mind is blank as he sinks forward and presses his temple between Dimitri’s shoulder blades.

“I’m listening,” Felix says.

Dimitri takes a breath in, slow and deep, and Felix can feel the way his chest expands. He shuts his eyes and counts the steady beats of Dimitri’s heart.

“I am not a good man.” The confession is said with such astounding conviction, Felix almost believes him. “I’ve made it this far in life off the sacrifices of others, and I give all I can to repay that kindness. However, for all you’ve done for me, even my greatest efforts at reparation fall short.”

“I stood by and watched you fall apart for years–”

Felix is jostled as Dimitri shakes his head. “You had little choice. The expectations placed on us were high to begin with. After what we went through, after all of me that was revealed, you still chose forgiveness.”

Felix wishes Dimitri would turn his words back on himself.

“I chose acceptance,” he corrects. “There was nothing to forgive.”

“That perspective is precisely why I could not ask you to stay,” Dimitri says. “I find myself seeking you out despite knowing I’ll only inconvenience you.”

Dimitri has always been many things. For one, a bleeding-heart with the astonishing ability to transform any person’s plight into his own. Dimitri is unguarded, to the point of intentional naivety, selfless to the point of self-destruction. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and when someone inevitably takes advantage, he counts the broken pieces all the while insisting it wasn’t their fault.

Dimitri is kind and merciful and oh-so-very foolish.

But that’s how he should be. A part of Felix is saved by those qualities.

He pushes Dimitri’s arms until he’s persuaded to turn around.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then you’re not truly living,” Dimitri says, calm, like he has it all figured out.

“I’m surviving aren’t I?” Felix shoots back, and Dimitri’s brows rise. “Who’s to say I can’t joyously do so as Duke Fraldarius. Unless you’d have me abandon my title as well?”

Face to face, the lack of an eyepatch leaves Dimitri’s shocked expression exposed.

“Of course not,” he assures. “What I meant was– well. You see, I–“

“I can tell you’ve really thought this through.” Felix rolls his eyes. “Hard to imagine what I’d accomplish as Duke without a king to serve under.”

“You could stay in Fraldarius territory and govern your land directly,” Dimitri mumbles, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes, and every time there’s a royal summit I’ll conveniently fall too ill to attend.”

Dimitri sighs, apparently not in the mood for a verbal spar. “You are destined for a far greater fate than life with me can offer.”

“I’ll decide my fate for myself,” Felix says. “Moreover, that’s quite the picture of me you have in your head. What makes you so sure I want something greater than this?” In a bold move, he takes Dimitri’s hand in his.

Dimitri flusters, tripping over another half-baked argument. “There must be a path you’ve thought to pursue– one outside of expectations and responsibilities. You would pass up that opportunity?”

Felix thinks of how he rejected the future laid out for him by his name. He once saw it as living in the shadow of another, but he’d been mistaken. It was an opportunity to step into the light.

“I guess I could get by as a wandering mercenary. But I've heard” —he squeezes Dimitri’s hand— “the benefits aren’t as good. Besides, you’ll have enough fame for the both of us. I’m ready for a quiet life.”

“...Would you like a quiet life with me?” Dimitri asks, staring with open wonder.

Felix snorts.

“As if. You’re never going to let me get an ounce of sleep and we both know it.” He only realizes the implication of his words once they’ve left his mouth. “Shut up.”

Dimitri is beaming. “I haven’t said a word.”

“You think loudly enough for me to hear,” Felix grumbles.

“Really?” Dimitri asks, taking a breath and looking at him with depths of sincerity. “Then you know what I intend to say next.”

Oh.

Felix slaps his hands over Dimitri’s mouth. “Don’t.”

The blood rushing to his face has him feeling faint, and Dimitri’s gaze softens, making it far worse.

Dimitri tilts his head and places a kiss to the center of Felix’s palm and Felix immediately jerks away, but Dimitri catches his wrist, steadying it in place.

“Felix–”

“If you say you love me, I’ll never speak to you again,” Felix says, rushing the words out in one breath. He doesn’t spend a second thinking about how that would work. His mind is too consumed by how close they’ve become, how much fondness is radiating between them.

Dimitri considers this for a minute, his expression grave, and the crazed part of Felix can’t believe he’s being taken seriously. Then Dimitri smiles, slow and sure, and the rational part of Felix knows he’s not.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Dimitri says.

Felix cuts down the sprout of relief before it has time to grow into disappointment.

“Good.” Felix eyes his held wrist. “You can let go of me now.”

“I love how disciplined you are.”

What.

“What?”

“I love how you always strive to improve yourself,” Dimitri continues. “and I love how you push others to do the same.”

Felix panics. “I thought I told you–”

“I love how you embody your ideals.” The closer Dimitri steps, the closer their hands pull them together. Soon, they’re chest to chest. “I love the way you devote yourself to your goals, and I love watching you achieve those goals. You care deeply for others, even when they may not deserve it.” He smiles. “I love that about you.”

“Hilarious,” Felix says, throat dry.

“I love your appearance as well,” Dimitri says, and Felix has to look away. Dimitri gently urges his face forward again. “I love to see you. I love how you are every day.”

“When you say a word that many times it loses all its meaning...”

“Then I'll have to keep going until it means something new.”

“You and your lofty ambitions,” Felix grouses, but a part of him is malleable, melting beneath the onslaught of praise like silver under flames.

“I adored your hair when we were children, you know,” Dimitri murmurs, tucking a strand behind Felix’s ear. “I always wished to brush it for you but never worked up the nerve.”

“You could’ve just asked. I’d have let you.”

“And now?”

“Don’t push your luck, boar.”

“Mm, believe it or not, I also love the names you call me.” Dimitri laughs freely at Felix’s dubious look. “I’ve come to find them rather comforting. Sweet, even.”

Felix slowly shakes his head. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“I’m glad to lose it to you,” Dimitri says.

“Goddess. That’s enough.” Anymore and Felix is scared he’ll confess something just as insane.

Dimitri carries on undeterred.

“I wish to say it clearly, so there’s no mistake. A man worthy of your affection is what I’d love to become.” Dimitri gathers Felix’s hands to his chest. “If you would have me?”

His speech ends on a tremor, anxiety creeping into his sure tone. Felix wants to take Dimitri’s fears and swallow them whole.

“Utterly ridiculous.” Felix can only choke out a few words over the lump in his throat. “I’ve always had you, Dimitri.”

Dimitri lets out a soft “oh,” and pulls him the last few inches into an embrace, pressing Felix’s head to his shoulder. Dimitri is warm, as he’s always been, and he envelops Felix like he could never bear for them to part. Felix’s hands barely meet in the middle of Dimitri’s back. Their difference in stature is troublesome, but Felix allows himself to settle into it.

Felix has no way of knowing if these feelings are a blessing, or if he’s condemning Dimitri by revealing how deep they run. He’s terrified to acknowledge the thread connecting them and to accept it for what it means. To allow someone to know him so completely.

Dimitri’s presence anchors him, reminding Felix of what he has to lose. What he may still gain.

It’s remarkably easy to let go.

“No matter what it takes, I swear I’ll make you happy.” Dimitri says, sounding awestruck.

Felix is embarrassed for them both.

He rubs his cheek into Dimitri’s shirt. “Don’t go out of your way or anything.”

Dimitri’s chuckle reverberates through his chest. “Would you truly accept anything less?”

“It’s eerie how well you know me.”

“Not well enough, I’m afraid.” Dimitri pulls away to lock their gazes. “I have five years to make up for.”

Felix thinks back to when Dimitri first began to feel like a stranger. He thinks of all the time he spent pretending Dimitri was one. When Felix would look him in the eye and claim not to recognize the person staring back. Five years is a weak estimate.

“We have our work cut out for us,” Felix says.

“There’s no rush,” Dimitri urges, stroking Felix’s cheek with his thumb. “We can set our own pace.”

Feeling indulgent, Felix toys with the fastenings of Dimitri’s tunic. “Hmph, you’re making an awful lot of sense.”

“I do have my moments.”

“Debatable,” Felix says, and he can’t suppress a shiver as the arms around him tighten. Dimitri is holding him, watching him, and Felix can count the individual flecks of grey in his irises. He catches the moment they flick down.

Ah, he thinks. Right.

“So may we...um.” Dimitri is suddenly looking everywhere but at him. “That is to say– uh. You know.”

“I don’t,” Felix says.

Dimitri’s cheeks are pink. “Are you still angry?”

“You– ugh.” Felix feels himself slipping. “No, I’m not angry.”

“Then...” Dimitri looms, the sickeningly hopeful expression on his face turning Felix’s stomach. The room is hot, his clothes suffocating him into a full body flush.

This whole situation is too surreal to be happening— for him to be letting it happen.

“I can’t believe this is what you’re shy about,” Felix says, amusement leaching into his veins like a slow acting poison.

Dimitri clears his throat. “I thought I made it clear, I find you exceedingly handsome.”

His adrenaline spikes. “You can’t just. Say that.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Dimitri drops compliments as if he were reading off a powerful line of scripture, and Felix is moved by the fervor of his deep voice. Felix closes the distance between them, one hand pulling the back of Dimitri’s neck and the other fisting in his collar.

The kiss is chaste. Just a quick peck to the corner of Dimitri’s lips. It sends Felix’s head spinning all the same.

Pulling away, Dimitri’s mouth is parted in shock.

Felix nudges it shut with his fingers.

“You talk too much.”

He has no bravado left to follow that up, but Dimitri takes initiative, leaning in slow and hesitant, like he’s terrified Felix will change his mind. Considering the position they’re in, the idea is absurdly stupid and absurdly sweet.

Their foreheads press together and instead of meeting his eyes, Felix studies the perfect slope of Dimitri’s nose and cupid’s bow— the same delicate features he had as a boy. Felix spent his entire childhood mapping out this face, as if, by imprinting Dimitri’s visage in his mind, he kept some hold on the person himself. Like Dimitri would remain eternally his.

Dimitri’s face radiates heat. He opens his mouth, then closes it. The question is as obvious as the answer.

Felix swallows. Nods.

Dimitri bridges the gap between them, kissing Felix once, fully. A hand guides his chin up to fit the plush of their lips together.

They separate, Dimitri’s half lidded gaze searching for approval. “Is this alright?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says, dazed. “I can’t tell.”

As if pulled by a magnetic force, Dimitri returns to him and Felix closes his eyes.

Their second kiss is lazy at first, gentle pressure and heat. Then Dimitri takes a breath, allowing Felix to bite at the curve of his lower lip and every sensation heightens and blends into one.

Felix trails his free hand to scratch across Dimitri’s scalp.

Dimitri sighs.

Felix curiously thumbs at his earlobe next and is rewarded with a pleased rumble beginning low in Dimitri’s chest and rising to vibrate against his lips. It’s like taming a wild lion.

Every place they make contact burns, and Felix stokes the flames by molding the line of their bodies together until he’s practically arching into the kiss, unsteady on his feet. Dimitri stoops to meet him and they stumble. It’d be simpler to inch up, but Felix refuses to get on tiptoe.

Dimitri breaks away, panting. “This is a bit difficult.”

“We wouldn’t have this issue if you weren’t so freakishly tall.” Felix impatiently tugs on Dimitri’s shoulders like it will solve the problem.

“I’m hardly the tallest person you know.”

“No,” Felix agrees. “You’re the most insufferable person I know.”

“I suppose I walked into that one.”

Felix smirks despite himself and makes a split second decision. The bed in his room is just a twin pressed up against the wall, but that doesn’t stop him from maneuvering Dimitri by the elbows until the back of his thighs hit the mattress.

With one light push, Dimitri sits and opens his knees enough for Felix to kneel over him.

“Better,” Felix says, delighting in the way Dimitri’s palms skirt lightly along his waist. “Now, close your eyes.”

A charming blush rises high on Dimitri’s cheeks as he complies. He looks good like this— ready and willing to follow Felix’s lead. It makes it all the more satisfying to finally lean in.

This time, no holds are barred. He kisses Dimitri like he’s wanted to for ages, drawing desperate sounds from him he must not realize he’s making.

Felix can’t speak for what possesses him. One moment they’re kissing, the next, he’s mouthing along Dimitri’s throat, pressing his tongue flat and sinking his teeth in hard enough to leave a mark.

“Ah– ow. Felix, that–”

“Hurts?” He moves to a fresh section of skin and bites down again, then a third time. The way vibrant purple blooms is mesmerizing to watch. Dimitri gasps, but tilts his head back, granting Felix easier access.

“You mustn't...”

He kisses Dimitri’s jaw. “Mustn't what?”

“You’re– you’re distracting me.” Dimitri pulls away, shaking his head. “You mustn’t leave marks.”

Right. His Majesty has a reputation to maintain, and his cloak only hides so much.

Felix quirks a brow and purposefully puts space between them. “You want to stop?”

“...I didn’t say that.”

Felix scoffs. “If you’re going to be a brat then forget it.” He goes to stand but a hand grips his sleeve.

Dimitri worries at his lip before silently slipping a finger under his collar, tugging the fabric down and baring a swath of neck.

And really, how much more invitation does Felix need?

His focus becomes the span of Dimitri’s throat, indulging himself until an acceptable line of burgundy rings stands out against pale skin. Rather than love bites, it looks like he stopped short of devouring Dimitri whole. Felix could slide his canines over any one and have them fit perfectly in place.

When he inches forward again to test this theory, Dimitri curls in on himself, groaning, “Are you not yet satisfied?”

Felix examines Dimitri lying sprawled, an arm hiding his face. His tongue darts out to wet chapped lips and his chest heaves, the motion sending small shocks through his body.

Felix thinks it will be awhile before he’s truly gotten his fill.

There is an irresistible allure to Dimitri pliant beneath him. If only his loyal subjects could see the state their king has been reduced to. A worrisome thrill runs down Felix’s spine at that thought, and he dutifully packs it away to address at a later time.

He frames his fingers along the mottled line of bruises. “A collar fit for a beast.”

Dimitri huffs, but slips his own hand over Felix’s. “Which one of us is the beast here, I wonder…”

“Still you,” Felix says, leaning down for a kiss.

Dimitri’s touch grips the sides of his thighs. Felix has the foresight to know where else they could end up.

He abruptly pulls back and Dimitri frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“We have to get ready,” Felix replies. “Unless, you plan on skipping the Blue Lions last hurrah.”

For a moment, Dimitri actually looks like he’s considering it. “We should go, shouldn’t we?”

As if they’d miss it for the world.

“I don’t think we’d survive Ingrid’s wrath otherwise.”

Dimitri chuckles at that and reaches up to cup his jaw. Felix lets him, but refuses to get all sentimental about it.

After the heat of the moment has passed, there is the matter of clothing to attend to.

Dimitri ends up borrowing a high neck sweater that just covers the offending bite marks. Felix doesn’t realize he’s staring unil Dimitri crosses his arms around his midsection, mumbling, “I’m sure it doesn’t suit me.”

Besides the picture of Dimitri in his sweater throwing Felix for a loop, it’s painfully clear they aren’t the same size. The material stretches enough to fit, at the expense of accentuating every dip and curve of Dimitri’s muscles. It’s almost worse than if he went shirtless.

“It will serve.” Felix plucks Dimitri’s forgotten cloak from the bed and fastens it around his shoulders for him. “You’re forgetting something, by the way.”

“My hair?” Dimitri asks, smoothing down loose strands.

Felix taps under his own right eye. “This.”

Dimitri’s gaze alights first with disbelief, then embarrassment, and Felix has but a second to be confused by this reaction before Dimitri is tilting his head down to kiss Felix on the cheek.

Dimitri leans away and shyly coughs into his fist. “That is everything then?”

It is, perhaps, the worst thing Dimitri has ever done to him.

His entire face in flames, Felix seethes, “By the Goddess– I was referring to your eyepatch you shameless idiot.”

________________

Dimitri’s mortified apologies are met with frigid silence, and they arrive to the party unfashionably late, turning heads upon entering the room.

Felix is hit by intense deja vu.

Byleth points them to the two remaining seats at the center of the table, side-by-side between Dedue and Mercedes.

Dedue raises a brow when Felix chooses the chair next to his, but doesn’t comment.

Felix counts this as a win.

He aims to avoid conversation and focus strictly on the event’s live entertainment, but by the end of the first routine, Felix is drawn out of his shell by Annette. In the seat opposite his, she is the perfect audience member, gasping at every spectacle and cheering on acts of skill, giving the most applause to those with the least talent.

In the middle of a poorly belted, operatic aria, Felix leans over the table and taps his knife on Annette’s plate to get her attention.

“I like your songs more,” he says truthfully.

She gawks and slaps his outstretched arm, but he notices her grinning throughout the rest of the performance.

Enjoying the party is easier after that. Felix loosens up, chatting with Annette and Ashe about the food and even trading banter with Sylvain— Dedue in the seat between them becomes an unwilling mediator.

By dessert, Felix has softened enough to acknowledge Dimitri’s presence.

Atrocious table manners out in full force, Dimitri digs into a large piece of cheesecake. He’s scattering crumbs, completely unaware of the whipped cream smudged on his cheek.

Watching Dimitri’s easy going manner, a strange feeling stirs in the pit of Felix’s stomach, light and fluttering like the beating of wings. It compels him to take matters into his own hands.

Felix picks up his napkin and reaches over to swipe it across the length of Dimitri’s mouth. When he pulls away, Dimitri is frozen, his fork poised for a bite.

“Don’t be slobbish,” Felix says.

Dimitri breaks out of a stupor. “Thank you.” He glances at Felix’s empty plate. “You haven’t had dessert yet?”

“No?”

“Here.” Dimitri extends a piece towards Felix. “Try some of mine.”

There are many excuses poised on Felix’s tongue, the largest being he doesn’t even like sweets— but Dimitri’s expectant air brings about that same odd feeling. Felix places a steadying hand over Dimitri’s and leans forward to snap his teeth around the fork with an audible clink.

Sugar melts across his palette in a burst of flavor, sickeningly sweet, and he reluctantly slides the rest of the cake into his mouth. The texture is vile, sticky like glue, but the taste is unmistakable: an overwhelming mix of cream and vanilla coating his tongue.

Felix manages a pained swallow. “Food with this much sugar should be outlawed,” he mutters.

Dimitri is obviously holding laughter, mirth dancing in his eyes. “As king, I could make that a royal decree.”

“Already abusing your power?”

Dimitri dips his head. “Simply acting on the behalf of my subjects.”

Felix vaguely registers their hands are still joined. “Oh, so I'm your subject now?”

“Among other things.”

There are a few cake crumbs dusted around Dimitri’s lips and they draw Felix’s gaze.

“With how many of your messes I’m forced to clean up, I must also be the king’s glorified custodian.”

Dimitri laughs. “As well as his right-hand man, confidant, and treasured friend.”

Warmth blooms in Felix’s cheeks from the sudden praise. He tracks the movement of Dimitri’s adam’s apple, zeroing in on the smudge of color that inches above his high collar.

“Sounds like he’s lucky to have me.”

“More than you know,” Dimitri says, barely above a whisper.

It dawns on Felix that he can hear Dimitri— as in, can hear his hushed tone crystal clear without having to strain, despite being seated at a crowded table which should be bustling with chatter.

Mechanically, Felix turns his head.

Everyone is staring at them, and why wouldn’t they be? They’re a scant few inches apart, practically holding hands, murmuring to each other like— like a—

“Looks like the quarrelsome couple finally kissed and made up!” Sylvain reaches across Dedue to give Felix a congratulatory pat on the arm and just escapes having his hand stuck with a butter knife.

Felix wants to die.

Dimitri is the reddest he’s ever been, looking like a criminal about to be apprehended. If there was any chance of plausible deniability before, his panicked reaction just threw it and the rest of Felix’s dignity from the highest spire of the castle.

The fool even tries to cover for them. “We’re not– We haven't gone so far as to– ”

Felix amends his previous statement. He actually wants to kill Dimitri, and then himself.

“Oh! Like a lovers’ pact? How romantic!” Annette giggles, and Felix realizes he’s been muttering to himself out loud. The emotional cost of snapping at Annette is too high, so he settles for swiping a tart from her plate. She gasps, “Felix! That’s twisted!”

“You have a twisted idea of romance,” Felix says, going to take a bite.

Dedue easily plucks the tart from his hold and hands it back to Annette. “I am glad you were able to resolve your differences. I admit, I was worried when your situation had not improved after–”

Dimitri raises his voice. “Dedue, that is quite enough! You’ll give the wrong impression–”

“–spending the night together,” Dedue finishes, shockingly giving no heed to his lord’s dismay. Felix would be impressed were he not stuck in Dimitri’s corner.

“That would explain…” Ashe trails off as Felix pins him with a glare.

Ingrid jumps into the conversation at the worst time. “Explain what?”

Ashe glances between Felix and Ingrid as if weighing his options. When he finally addresses Dimitri, he does so completely rigid. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, I noticed that sweater is awfully tight on you. Would it happen to be one of Felix’s?”

Dimitri reflexively pulls his cloak closed, and Felix’s fate is sealed.

“Forget I asked,” Ingrid grumbles, turning back to her plate.

Sylvain laughs hard enough to shake the table, and Felix contemplates the pros and cons of murdering his childhood friends in cold blood.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Mercedes says, placing a reassuring hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “If anyone deserves love, it’s you two.”

Her angelic smile and an adoring glance from Dimitri quiet Felix’s temper— until Byleth begins asking him probing questions about rings and ceremonies.

Thankfully, his interrogation is put on hold with the arrival of a second opera singer. A clear soprano, her high voice carries familiar weight, and as she lifts her dress to curtsy, several battle scars stand out underneath sheer stockings.

Felix immediately likes her better than the last.

Below the table, he feels a tentative brush against his hand. Dimitri appears entirely focused on the performance, feigning as if he hasn’t made a silent request. The glaring blush at the tips of his ears gives him away.

The soprano dives into a wistful song, crooning verses full of starlight, blue moons, and a knight’s unnamed sweetheart.

Felix recognizes this ballad; he’s heard his fair share. Some are sad, most are sappy, and he’s yet to find one that doesn’t straddle the line between stupid and sincere. In the past, he’s questioned why even the most distinguished composers swear by such love-struck romanticisms.

Now, studying the gentle curve of Dimitri’s smile as their fingers interlace, Felix understands.