Archive of Our Own

Sylvain knew he was many things: a flirt, a cad, a disappointment, a diva—all of them he’d heard a multitude of times, some from different mouths, some from the same person again and again. Most of them were just a new trait to live up to, one to embody and flaunt like it was everything that defined him. It was fun, watching people’s expressions twist, especially when they came to him expecting something. It was even more appealing during the war when it was quite good at distracting him from, well, the war.

And he was very good at distracting others by being everything that the people around him loathed. In the last month at the monastery, twice he’d had Ingrid’s lips twisting in that way they always did when she caught him locked out of his own room without pants, and three times he had Felix muttering under his breath as he noticed a bruise that most definitely wasn’t a training injury. He even had Dimitri flushed once, his face as red as Sylvain’s pants, when Sylvain was chatting about his latest conquest in the sauna.

Granted, all three of them ganged up on him at once, insisting he would be left out of the next battles if he continued to be so damn distracting with his nonsense. As if the distraction wasn’t the point.

Still, Sylvain was also a man of his word. They made him swear to behave…so he would.

When it came to the monastery, that was fine. He had other things to do. He could actually study up on the Professor’s recommended magics, or catch up on some tea time with Mercedes and Annette, or he could actually train when he told Felix he was training. It wasn’t quite as diverting as his usual habits, but it was enough to help him sleep at night, to ignore the world around him.

It wasn’t so simple outside the monastery, though. There were no such diversions in the camp before and after battle. No tea to have outside of canvas tents, no means of studying when there weren’t any books to be found. There was just fight, heal, clean armor, sharpen weapons, repeat. An endless repetition that exhausted his body, but nothing that really mattered.

It left him sleepless when the lights of camp died down, staring up at the roof of his tent, tracing patterns in old and worn fabric. It wasn’t enough to sleep; it wasn't enough to have him well-rested come morning.

But Sylvain was many things, and he most certainly was a good actor. He could put on a smile when morning came, when the soldiers began to ready themselves for the battle ahead. He could cheer on his battalion when they began to fret about their commands. He could even annihilate his enemies with ease, adding another tally to the long list of people who would torment him when death finally came for him.

Or…he could at first.

But a week of campaigning, their attempt to relieve the small nearby villages of Adrestian control, was digging under his skin. Too little sleep, too much time spent in his own mind, unable to ignore the world around him. All of his responses felt too brittle, too fake—it made him feel like everyone could see through him, could see the broken human he truly was.

No one said it, but he was sure they knew. He was positive that they only didn’t out of politeness. This group was small, after all, and they needed every soldier they had. If they insulted Sylvain, he was enough of a reputable diva for others to suspect that he would just storm off.

Of course, he’d never abandon Dimitri’s side—but if he wasn’t loyal in his relationships, then surely he would never be loyal to his own king.

Sylvain groaned, running his fingers roughly through his hair as he stared at the flames of the morning’s campfire. He’d given up on sleep early enough that he had to pretend he was assigned the early morning’s watch, and the poor soldier was so tired that he didn’t think to question why anyone would only be assigned watch for a few hours.

“Oh!” The familiar voice made Sylvain’s gaze snap up, his lips slow to slide into his casual smile.

But it was Dimitri. Dimitri wouldn’t notice.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Sylvain said, his voice sweet—too sweet. He needed to tone it down. He needed to be less obvious.

“I…didn’t expect you to be awake,” Dimitri muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. It was exposed, Sylvain realized—free from that metal collar of his armor that always seemed uncomfortable beyond all reason. In fact, Dimitri wasn’t wearing any armor at all. At best, this could be considered his under armor…if Sylvain was truly so sleep-deprived that he’d lost all sense of what counted there.

“Forget something?” Sylvain asked, gaze lingering too long on the loose cotton that made up Dimitri’s shirt.

“No.” Dimitri blinked, his gaze following Sylvain’s. “Oh—you mean—yes, right.” Dimitri’s cheeks colored slowly, spreading from his cheeks and crawling down his throat and along the tips of his ears.

“Mmhm.” Sylvain glanced up, lips quirking. He liked it when Dimitri blushed. It meant he was…well, he was more Dimitri. More open, more honest, and maybe a little more vulnerable. Sometimes it made Sylvain just want to—

Okay, that one was definitely the sleep deprivation talking.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “I…,” his gaze snapped away, his hands clasping behind his back, “please don’t tell Felix. He’s already irate enough about…about everything.”

Sylvain hummed, head tilting playfully. “And what aren’t I telling Felix?”

Dimitri sighed, rubbing his face. “I have…been having difficulties…waking up. The river near camp is cold, and it is sufficient to bring me back to my senses.”

Sylvain was a good enough liar to know that Dimitri was the worst kind; he couldn’t keep eye contact for more than a few seconds, and his awkward emphases made the truth a little too clear.

“How’d you escape the guards?” Sylvain mused, watching the way Dimitri struggled not to squirm. Yeah, he definitely liked this better. It was nice to talk to Dimitri and actually get a response. Refreshing, even.

“Sheer luck, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh. And I managed to sneak into town after curfew from sheer luck, too.” He stood from his seat, brushing off his pants. “So, which was it? The propositioning kind of luck, or the payment kind?”

It was a dangerous question to ask, he knew—it was clear enough in the way anger flashed across Dimitri’s face, a combination of annoyance and offense. But whether he was offended from being compared to Sylvain, or the suggestion of a bribe, or even offense on his cohort’s behalf, well, that remained to be seen.

“C’mon, Your Highness,” Sylvain pressed, stepping closer, his hands on his hips. It was risky, he knew. More than risky, really. But it was worse if someone could be so easily bought to let their king sneak away from camp, especially without an escort. It meant the king was left alone, vulnerable.

And whoever let Dimitri do that was going to seriously pay for it.

“You always knew what I was up to,” Sylvain mused, smiling. “It’s only fair, right?”

Dimitri’s lips pressed into a firm line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That so?” Sylvain mused. “Should I ask Martin?”

Dimitri twitched. Sometimes it was just too easy.

“He takes the morning shift,” Sylvain mused, “so I’m sure he knows.”

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s voice was a low growl. “Leave it.”

That would be the smart thing to do, really. It wasn’t his job to watch after Dimitri. It wasn’t his place to question what Dimitri was doing—he certainly didn’t before. He followed his orders like a good little soldier, like he was born to do since birth.

But…but following orders wasn’t always the right thing. The events of late made that very clear.

“Let me go with you,” Sylvain said, his smile a bit too wide to be comfortable.

“What?”

“If you’re that insistent on going, let me come, too. Camp will start moving soon enough, so…I don’t think we need to worry about them. Right?”

Dimitri grimaced. “I’m not sure—”

“I could just wake up the camp early,” Sylvain offered, sounding perhaps a little too amused with himself. “I’m sure no one will mind…”

“Fine, fine!” Dimitri groaned, rubbing his face. He glared at Sylvain, but it seemed more tired than anything else. “Fine. Just…just fine.”

“‘Fine’ as in ‘Sylvain I would be happy for you to join me and there is no one else I would trust more’ or ‘fine’ in ‘please go wake the camp because I cannot stand the thought of you joining me’?”

Dimitri scowled. He turned on his heel, pressing through the brush toward the river. “Just…be quiet about it.”

Sylvain propped himself on one of the large boulders around the river’s edge, his gaze sliding across the area. There was a lot of foliage here, sure, but it didn’t seem any more dangerous than anywhere else. The river was too wide for anyone to charge across—at least not without creating a huge fuss in the process. And perhaps an arrow could be shot, but if five years alone hadn’t killed Dimitri, it seemed unlikely that a single arrow would.

Then there was along the river. South of here, there was no way one would approach without alerting the camp. And northwest, where the river continued further? The forest wasn't very thick there, felled by a massive fallen tree whose decaying bark smothered the brush below. No one would get past there, either, not without drawing too much attention.

Though, if Sylvain thought about it, he highly doubted that Dimitri considered this at all. He probably just wandered over here, desperate for some way to refresh himself—or, quite likely, wash the blood from his hands—and found some relief in the river. So he’d returned again and again.

Well, there were worse habits for Dimitri to adopt. At least he was doing this in the morning, when visibility was better and the watch would know when he’d been gone too long.

He glanced over, eyes following the way Dimitri carefully cupped the water, cautious like it was some grand travesty for any drops to return to the river’s flow. He was even careful as he splashed his face with it, a soft little ‘ah’ passing his lips each time, as if each one was just as refreshing. Water soaked into his shirt, but he seemed more pleased by it than bothered.

And Sylvain certainly wasn’t bothered by it. In fact—

Heat rose to his cheeks, the sound of his own swallowing far too loud in his own head. Oh, he was most definitely bothered, and he absolutely blamed his lack of sleep for it.

He winced as he cupped water in his hands, lacking any sense of grace as he splashed it onto his face. It was cold—no, absolutely frigid—but at least it was sapping the heat from his cheeks, waking him up from the absolute insanity that he was letting dwell in his own mind.

Dimitri was a king—was his king. He’d known that his whole life, as much as he’d known what he was—a disappointment, a flirt, a simple soldier destined to waste his life away in Gautier. He was someone who could never compare, let alone hope.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dimitri asked, his voice far brighter than it had been this morning.

Sylvain let out a slow exhale, facing the slowly rising sun as he brushed damp fingers through his hair, slicking it back—at least temporarily—from his face. “Mmhm.”

Well, at least that wasn’t a lie. It was refreshing, at least a little. The cool morning air caught the water nicely, bringing just enough chill to draw Sylvain back to his senses. Like this, he at least felt more like himself.

It also meant he was very aware of Dimitri staring. Sylvain offered a wry smile, amused. “It’s okay to stare. I do realize the effect a wet shirt has on people.”

Dimitri flushed in full—the blush so rapid that there was the distinct possibility that he was going to pass out. His gaze snapped away, splashing more water into his face for good measure. It was quite charming, really.

Unfortunately, it also had Dimitri’s hair so soaked that it dripped down his face and neck, channeling more shaggy dog than rightful king. Sylvain couldn’t manage to suppress his snicker in time.

“Want me to help you with that, Your Highness?” he asked, hiding his chuckle behind his fist.

Dimitri scowled at him. “I barely see how.”

“I used to do Felix’s and Ingrid’s hair all the time,” which wasn’t untrue, since he most certainly did up until both decided they had their own lifelong pursuits that most importantly didn’t involve Sylvain (but he didn’t want to linger on that now), “yours will be easy.”

Dimitri sighed, turning on his little boulder perch, uncertainty clear in his gaze.

“You’ll look nice and it’ll stay out of your way,” Sylvain pressed. “Promise.”

Sylvain frowned, staring at the flickering flames in front of him. He’d tried rekindling this fire twice, but every time just had it spite him more and more. At this rate, it was going to turn into charcoal, and he’d be the only person in camp completely incapable of knowing how to sustain a fire.

Which was stupid. He knew fire magic. He’d even tried using it a few times, at least until his fingers ached from overuse—since, well, it kind of required rest to recharge one’s magic.

He sat his chin in his palm, staring at the tiny flame that tried so hard to stay alive. It wasn’t that different from his exhaustion, if he thought about it. The river water had been refreshing, true, but its effects were as limited as the spark of Sylvain’s magic. While it had him aware enough to cover Dimitri’s back when a warrior got a little too ambitious, cutting down that man before he ever reached Sylvain’s king…well, it was offering him nothing now. Soon enough, he’d burn out entirely.

And yet, still, he had lay awake open in bed, unable to do anything but stare at the fabric of his tent.

“Sir?” The voice was soft, timid—perhaps a whisper out of consideration more than anything else, but it was hard to be sure.

Sylvain glanced up at the soldier—a member of Dimitri’s battalion, if he remembered correctly. “Mm?”

“I, ah, perhaps this is too blunt,” the man rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing slightly, “but please allow me to cover your watch tonight.”

“It’s fine,” Sylvain mused, waving off the soldier. “I’m fine.”

“I…this may seem impolite, sir, but you look like shit.”

Sylvain’s smile turned sharp. “Is that so?” It had to be a little impressive that the man only twitched a little, especially with Sylvain’s annoyance simmering beneath his skin and on the edge of bursting. True, Sylvain lacked Dimitri’s natural intimidating presence, but there was some reputation behind those who bore a Crest, and especially with the bloodstained Lance that was now in Sylvain’s possession.

Besides, everyone else had the sense to pretend everything was fine, so why didn’t this one man?

“And, what exactly,” Sylvain pushed himself up to his feet, easily towering over the soldier, “does that look like?”

The man swallowed, bold enough to stare back up at Sylvain. “Like a beast chewed you up and spat you back out, sir.”

Sylvain raised a brow.

“Your armor has taken enough hits to pay for a blacksmith’s meals for a month, you haven’t cleaned your Lance in two days, and frankly the bags under your eyes are so dark that it’s entirely possible that you’ve invented a new color. You need to sleep, sir.” He glanced at a small grouping of soldiers still going over their equipment on the other end of camp. “You can trust us to handle the nightwatch.”

“And if I refuse?” Sylvain pressed.

“His Majesty asked us to notify him of any threats to the battalion. And you, sir, will be a threat if you don’t sleep.”

Sylvain’s teeth ground, his fists clenching at his sides. And, in truth, he couldn’t even be mad at this guy. Any other time, he would have leapt at the opportunity to disregard work, to foist it off on someone willing to deal with it.

But he didn’t want to lie awake in that tent again, staring up at the canvas and just stuck in his own head. At least out here, he could distract himself with the fire, or any branches cracking in the distance, or…or even a breeze, at one point. In there, he was stuck with nothing but his own thoughts, spiraling around him and threatening to suffocate him.

And, while he could possibly distract himself with a little romp on a bedroll to force himself to sleep…it still seemed like a bad idea, scolding aside. Sleeping with one of his own could cause a level of unrest among his men, and sleeping with Dimitri’s would only infuriate the future king. Hell, if he was a bit…insensitive…he could even ruin a person essential for Dimitri’s protection.

“Sir,” the soldier continued, his expression weary, “at least try?”

The others were looking now, watching. And Sylvain wasn’t sure he could perform very well enough to escape their judgment. “Yeah, sure.” He took a step back, already drained. “Don’t burn the camp down.”

The soldier nodded, saying something else that Sylvain didn’t care to hear. There was nothing that could be said that wouldn’t grate on his nerves any more, making him lash out like his brother or father did whenever a soldier got a little too ambitious for their position. But he wasn’t them…he couldn’t be. He refused to be.

But most certainly the lack of sleep was dragging him closer with every passing day.

He sighed, trying to push out the thoughts with the sound of the dirt scuffing beneath his boots, or the slight breeze as it pressed through the trees above. It was working…barely.

As he pushed into his tent, a sight made him pause. There was a large fur spread out in the center, bundled up a bit like it had been tossed there.

Perhaps the men had been a bit more determined than he was willing to give them credit for. That, or they were so sick of his nonsense—whatever it was—that they thought this single offering would help. That all Sylvain needed was a proper fur over his bedroll to make him fall asleep—though if it looked like it was provided with any sort of effort, they feared he would disregard it entirely.

Though, at this point, he was desperate enough to not care.

Sylvain shrugged off his coat, tossing it into the corner of his tent as he slid down beneath the fur cover. As he settled in place, he became distinctly aware of a pillow there, warm and just on this side of firm—pleasant to wrap his arms around and press his face against. Whoever had managed to bring this level of luxury was a professional. He probably deserved a medal.

“Mm, warm,” Sylvain hummed around a yawn, nuzzling a bit more. Maybe the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. Maybe he finally stood a chance of actually sleeping.

Maybe, just maybe…

Sylvain blinked awake to a tent barely lit by the morning sun. It wasn’t quite early enough for the camp to be fully awake and moving yet, but he could most certainly make out a few whispers in the distance, with voices he didn’t recognize among his own men.

To be fair, he imagined that Dimitri’s men had taken it upon themselves to keep Sylvain confined to his own tent, to keep him from causing any further trouble for everyone else. That, or the rumors were already starting about the wandering Crest heir, out here to—

Ugh. He didn’t have the willpower to even begin to fathom what the rumors would be about. Probably the same nonsense as back in the Academy—to stalk some poor, unfortunate, unknowing fool, taking advantage of his Crest to bend their wills. Like most people weren’t already all over him, regardless of how much he ‘prowled about’.

He sighed, pressing his face against the pillow. He was the one who wanted to enjoy the chaos, the opportunity to be the antithesis of everything his father wanted in a son. He’d always known he’d pay for it someday.

Though, admittedly, he’d hoped ‘someday’ would be when he was stuck with some wife he never wanted with some kids who he could barely bring himself to care about. Not now, in the middle of some dirt-covered camp in the middle of nowhere.

His eyelids fluttered shut. He’d been able to sleep through the night, it seemed—able to ignore the world for a full six or seven hours. What was one hour longer? Who could fault him, when—

“Mm.” A deep rumble rolled through Sylvain’s chest—but it wasn’t his own. It was foreign enough that it had Sylvain jolting upright, half-falling back even as he found himself tangled inside the fur.

And there—right in front of him—was the very thing he’d missed in the dark of the night, even though it was so obvious now. The pillow—the one he’d nuzzled and clung to all night—wasn’t a pillow. Sure, it was pillowy, in theory, or, well, in practice, but—

Sylvain’s brain was frying. His face was so hot that he was absolutely going to lose any semblance of sanity he had left.

Because there, slowly blinking awake—and definitely more aware with every attempt Sylvain made to escape this fur prison—was Dimitri.

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s voice was low, still soft and groggy from sleep. He reached out, frowning at the way Sylvain twitched as his broad hand wrapped around Sylvain’s wrist. “Are you—”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” Sylvain stammered out, his face burning hotter with his every word. Guilt clenched around his chest and squeezed until he was practically breathless.

This wasn’t his tent. He could see it now as his gaze snapped frantically around; nothing in here even remotely close to his, except for his discarded coat. Even a sleepless fool would know the look of Areadbhar, even in the night. As if a pile of fur—Dimitri’s fur cloak—wasn’t enough to make that much obvious on its own.

“I thought,” his voice sounded too high-pitched, too loud, echoing in his own head, “I thought—”

Dimitri’s free hand clamped over Sylvain’s mouth, holding him so firmly that it made Sylvain dizzy—the pleasant, fuzzy kind, though certainly no less devoid of more nausea than he would have liked.

He’d come into Dimitri’s tent. He’d intruded on Dimitri’s privacy. He’d curled up in his bed. He’d treated him like he was simply something to be used, against his permission.

The condemnations made his eyes burn. Dimitri was never going to trust him again. And he’d deserved that.

“I need you to breathe,” Dimitri said, his voice a soft and placating whisper. “Breathe, before you say another word and wake the whole camp.” He leaned a little closer, his face close to Sylvain’s in a way that was far more intimate than Sylvain had earned. “Can you do that?”

At this point, Sylvain would do anything to earn Dimitri’s trust again. He nodded.

Dimitri’s smile was soft, warm. “Good.”

Slowly, almost painfully so, Dimitri pulled his hand away. His other slowly uncurled from Sylvain’s wrist, clearly satisfied when Sylvain didn’t continue his efforts for a hasty escape. Not that he hadn’t already been caught red-handed and red-faced.

“If you made any more commotion,” Dimitri mused, gentle as he untangled Sylvain from his cloak, “I fear the army would think I were abusing you.”

Sylvain swallowed, his mind already jumping to a few ways he wouldn’t mind being abused by Dimitri. He was quick to clamp down on it, certain now that he would only be spared if he removed his traitorous brain and threw it as far away as he could.

Dimitri frowned. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? If I did, I sincerely—”

“No! No.” Sylvain ran a hand through his hair, none-too-kind to the strands. “I…I’m sorry. I thought this was my tent, and I was tired, and I just…I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to…to accost you like this.” Goddess, and Dimitri had been kind enough to just let him.

Dimitri hummed, reaching across the tent for his actual undershirt, toying with the ties. “Have you had difficulties sleeping lately, Sylvain?”

Sylvain went rigid. “The…your soldiers talked to you, huh?”

Dimitri’s fingers stilled, that frown even more potent as he glanced toward the door of his tent. “Not at all. It’s just…,” his tongue ran over chapped lips, and Sylvain’s gaze couldn’t help but follow, “you didn’t wake when I attempted to rouse you. I could only assume it is from exhaustion…unless you are ill?”

Oh, this was even worse. Dimitri had tried, and Sylvain simply slept through it. He was never going to sleep in a tent again. Maybe he’d sleep in a ditch, where he more reasonably belonged.

“Are you ill, Sylvain?”

“No—I just—I,” Sylvain groaned, hiding his face in his hands, “I’m so sorry.”

Dimitri hummed softly, rustling accompanying his movements as he dressed himself. “I don’t need your apologies, Sylvain, I merely…need to understand.” There was a long exhale. “If you would be honest with me.”

Sylvain grimaced. Dimitri at least deserved that much. Not that he could look him in the eyes when he said it. “I don’t…sleep well out here.”

Dimitri blinked. “Is it…because you needed a blanket? I’m sure I could—”

“It’s not the blanket.” This was the worst. The absolute worst. Sylvain had been caught in plenty of situations that would have had night flowers blushing—and still this was the worst.

“Ah, I see.” There was a long pause—almost unbearably so. “The contact, then. That would explain why you were so tangled up with me last night.”

“Tangled?!” Sylvain nearly choked on the word, feeling like he was going to swallow his tongue. He inhaled sharply when Dimitri gave him a pointed look, but it wasn’t enough. “What do you mean tangled?”

Dimitri tapped his knuckle against his lips, thinking. His expression brightened quickly, a little ‘ah!’ passing his lips like he’d had some grand epiphany—one that spelled Sylvain’s death by embarrassment, for sure.

“Our legs,” he said, offering two fingers from each hand, curling them together in a way that had to be impossible for Sylvain to not notice, “were like this.”

Yup. Either Sylvain was going to die—or he already had and this was hell. At this point, he was already hoping for the latter.

“And your arm was wrapped around my waist all night, too,” Dimitri mused. He chuckled, a small blush rising to his cheeks as he attempted to hide it. “You called it ‘unfairly small’.”

“Please,” Sylvain begged, utterly pathetic, “Your Highness—”

“Ah, you also had your lips right…mm…right here.” Dimitri pulled away his collar a little, revealing the ghost of a bruise. “I did not realize you bit in your sleep.”

Hell. This was hell, for sure. There was no way the real Dimitri would be so damn nonchalant about all of this. The real one would certainly lecture Sylvain until the soldiers had to bodily drag him away, infuriated that Sylvain’s habits were so ingrained that he’d even used them on his future king.

That, or Dimitri was so mad that he was a quiet fury, slamming Sylvain with every possible transgression to make him fear his future punishment even more. To make him truly endure what he’d done, to the point that—perhaps—he’d never do it again.

It was likely the latter, as Dimitri was entirely unfazed, still going on about things Sylvain said in his sleep, “And you also—ah, Sylvain? Is something wrong?”

“Just…just kill me,” Sylvain grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t take this any more.”

“Take…what?”

“Please stop rubbing it in.” Sylvain glanced up at him, wondering if he’d be forgiven if he just groveled. “I messed up…I know. I know.”

Dimitri blinked. “I’m not…scolding you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain’s lips twitched. Like he believed that.

“You asked what I meant, and I merely answered.” Dimitri’s attention turned back to the ties on his armor, his brows scrunching as he tried to get his breastplate to cooperate. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sylvain muttered numbly, brushing away Dimitri’s fingers so he could work out the lacing. What was Dimitri doing, then, if not mocking Sylvain?

“In fact,” Dimitri mused, glancing at the furs still piled on his bedroll, “I would like it if you could come again tonight.”

Sylvain felt his heart drop to his stomach. “You…what?”

“If you could join me again tonight,” Dimitri repeated, “I would be very happy.”

Sylvain fumbled with the ties, entirely forgetting how knots worked. But it was better than looking at Dimitri’s face—than finding out whether this was complete earnestness or a cruel jest. “What.”

“Last night,” Dimitri slid on his gauntlet, making an approving noise as Sylvain tried to work at those laces, “was the best night’s sleep I had in…years? Years.”

“I kept you up all night,” Sylvain muttered.

“Not at all!” Dimitri smiled, far too bright for this morning. “True, it was strange at first, and you did things I certainly couldn’t expect while I tried to wake you, but it was…hmm…it wasn’t unpleasant.”

Sylvain could only stare at him, forgetting his job entirely.

“I will be honest with you, Sylvain,” Dimitri said, his voice soft, “till last night, my rest has been anything but restful. Even though I swore to…to be better…I cannot so easily shake…everything. And it comes most potently when it is dark and the camp is quiet. But your presence, and perhaps the reliance I have on you watching my back, it seemed…to make all of that quieter. Enough where I could sleep.”

Sylvain continued to stare, none of the words making any sense in his head.

A pretty blush spread across Dimitri’s cheeks, his gaze sliding away. “So I…would like that again. If it wouldn’t be any inconvenience.” His gaze flicked back to Sylvain, the expression on his face nearly vulnerable—far too reminiscent of when he was a child and had broken a lance that Sylvain had been fond of (ignorant to the fact that Sylvain was well accustomed to his things being broken), or when he asked Sylvain to read a book a bit too advanced for his lessons.

And, like back then, Sylvain couldn’t help but indulge him.

One more night turned into another, and another after that. Every night, Sylvain waited until the watch was between shifts and most of the others had gone to sleep, using his years of practice to slide into Dimitri’s bedroll and bury himself in the furs and arms of his bedmate. And, when the sun began to peek over the horizon, he returned to his own tent, readying himself like he’d been there the whole time.

No one noticed; no one asked any questions. They all simply let it be, probably just happy that their general was actually getting a good night’s sleep and not slowly hurtling himself into oblivion. And, the more rested he was, the more Sylvain knew that none of them caught on.

Though, admittedly, it was hard to keep the giddy feeling to himself. Too often he couldn’t help the smile on his face as he thought about the way Dimitri practically melted under his touch, often drifting off as Sylvain pressed kisses along his back and spine and neck. The little sigh from Dimitri’s lips was victory enough as the man fell asleep, his soft snores a perfect lullaby to guide Sylvain down with him. It was even harder when he thought about the way Dimitri made these sweet little noises when Sylvain tried to massage knots from his muscles, looking up at Sylvain like he was the sun itself bringing warmth to this world.

It was even harder not to blush, though, when he thought about the way Dimitri sometimes turned the tables on him, wrapping Sylvain into his arms and enveloping him in his warmth, pressing kisses along the hollow of Sylvain’s throat and jaw—sometimes with so much affection that Sylvain had no choice but to crane his neck as best he could and catch that man in a heated kiss—just so he didn’t immediately burst into flames from all the attention. It always seemed Dimitri did this when Sylvain was just a bit too restless, and this exertion most certainly had him asleep far quicker than Sylvain could ever anticipate.

Dimitri never asked to define whatever this was between them—and Sylvain refused to see it as anything more than a little stress relief to help them both sleep. He deserved nothing more than that from Dimitri, and he knew more than anything else that this was a simple…hobby, at best. Eventually, Dimitri would find something else that worked. Or he’d find someone else who would suit him better. And Sylvain would go back to sleepless nights in the field, and diversions at the Academy that would never quite feel as fulfilling.

And he was okay with that. He was okay with just offering a smile and a wink whenever his soldiers asked him about the smile on his lips, or the blush on his cheeks. He simply acted as he always did.

And, when their little campaign was done—when they marched back to the Academy and returned back to their own beds and their own stable expectations—Sylvain couldn’t pretend to be surprised as things fell back into their normal routines.

Dimitri didn’t look at him—he was too busy working out the details of the next campaign with the Professor, his hand landing on their shoulder as he smiled warmly. He didn’t talk to him—he was too busy during their mealtimes talking about recent events with Ashe and Ingrid, entertaining every inquiry with as much enthusiasm. He didn’t touch him—he was too preoccupied with his sparring sessions with Felix, who somehow had gotten over his stupid resentment to offer Dimitri another chance, which Dimitri was readily taking at almost every waking moment.

When Sylvain went to bed, he didn’t find Dimitri there. He could hear through their shared wall that Dimitri rather eagerly went to his own room, often talking to Dedue for several hours before he settled for sleep. And, while Sylvain lay awake—restless—in his own bed, Dimitri seemed to have no issues at all.

It was driving Sylvain mad. No amount of flirting with the nearest random face—not even during tea with Mercedes or Annette—was enough to distract him. Nothing could make him simply erase the nights spent with Dimitri—nothing could keep him from yearning to be touched again, to feel that warmth as he drifted off to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

So, when Byleth asked if a volunteer was willing to take a small battalion to handle an issue along the Galatea border, Sylvain volunteered immediately. He tried to smile despite the way everyone looked at him like he’d gone mad, like he’d been replaced by an impostor.

But it wasn’t hard at all to smile when his gaze caught Dimitri’s, and Dimitri had the gall to look bothered about it.

If he’d wanted to take the campaign, he simply should have been faster.

Volunteering was a mistake. Travel included, he’d not been away for more than five days, but still Sylvain wanted nothing more than to crawl into the void and die there. He’d not managed to sleep a wink, and his mood had plummeted to the point where his men weren’t being subtle at all when they whispered about him being a ‘diva’.

He stumbled up the steps to his room, cursing the archbishop and goddess and everyone in between for putting his room on the second floor, high enough that he was actively considering crawling to his bed. The sheets, at least, would be soft enough to pull him the rest of the way to sleep—to finish off what his exhaustion had started—or at least he hoped as much.

It wasn’t like he’d be able to find some bored soldier wandering the halls, willing to sleep with him—not when it was clear he was covered in the stink of five days of travel and the damn baths had the audacity to be closed once the sun had set. It wasn’t his fault that Byleth was playing 100 questions about a simple mission, nor was it his fault that the damn bathhouse guard lacked the mercy to let Sylvain soak for even five minutes (then again, he had perhaps ruined the bath once or twice, much to the annoyance of that broad man). There was, it seemed, a point where no amount of money offered would be enough.

Sylvain would make do. His sheets were due a washing, anyway, so he’d just…put up with sleeping, even like this. He could scrub himself clean and wash and hang his sheets come morning. If he was up early enough—and he certainly would be, with the low chance he was actually going to sleep—he’d manage it before anyone asked him to do anything. It would be fine.

With a groan, he stepped into his room, fingers already working at the laces of his armor. It would be a pain to clean, too, even if he did just pass it off to the blacksmith. They were already going to drain a small fortune for the repairs, and there was only going to be so many more times before his father started to question that it was done in the line of duty…before he’d start coming up with ways to make Sylvain pay for it.

Slowly, he placed his breastplate on the desk, slowly settling the rest of his armor beside it. It wasn’t the right place, but he was in no way capable of settling it appropriately on his armor stand. And, besides, it was out of the way, organized to at least some capacity. It could be worse.

Sylvain ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing at the oiliness that he’d been entirely ignorant to through his own gloves and armor. It made him want nothing more than to dunk his head into a bucket of water—except doing that would have him venturing back downstairs and he wasn’t sure he’d make the journey back.

With a groan, he trodded over to his bed, shedding his remaining outer layers and tossing them into his laundry basket. If he missed, he didn’t want to know. He wanted nothing more than to curl into bed, pretend nothing else around him existed. He just wanted to sleep.

“Sylvain?” The whisper was soft, gentle—as if its owner was worried it would wake a sleepless man.

Sylvain glanced over, too tired to be surprised at Dimitri hovering there at his bedside, fidgeting like he couldn’t be certain if he made some grand trespass. Which was absurd—they’d not even ‘trespassed’ in their little nighttime sessions. Though Sylvain’s imagination certainly had once or twice afterward, when the camp seemed too cold and his bedroll too unforgiving.

“May I…join you tonight?” Dimitri asked, his gaze sliding over a bed frame that sometimes seemed too small for even Sylvain.

Sylvain wanted to say no out of a sense of pride. Except his pride had died on day three of sleep deprivation, and even now he could barely recognize its echo, let alone its spite. After all, hadn’t he been hurt, to be disregarded so easily? Hadn’t he been forgotten, cast aside, as if Sylvain had expected their little venture to be anything beyond temporary? Didn’t he want more—need more?

He exhaled softly, letting his gaze fall over Dimitri. That dark circle under his eye had returned, even though Sylvain was quite certain that it was gone before he left. Dimitri’s shoulders were slumped in a way entirely unbefitting of a king, nearly curled in on himself when he didn’t have his cloak or armor to force him upright. His fingers curled nervously in front of him, twitching in time with his lips as they visibly struggled not to frown.

The obvious was in front of him, but Sylvain couldn’t fathom why. What had kept Dimitri from sleeping?

“I haven’t bathed,” Sylvain muttered, cheeks warming self-consciously. He was always the one put-together, the one looking a little too nice in the heat of war. “I reek.”

Dimitri’s fingers curled into Sylvain’s blanket, eye still watching Sylvain carefully as if he needed permission. “I don’t mind.”

Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek as his body moved without permission, scooting to press himself closer to the wall. “You will.”

Dimitri beamed, rapidly kicking off his boots and sliding into the open spot on the bed—so small that it had his chest pressed against Sylvain’s—but only for a moment. Dimitri was quick to adjust, scooting down a bit so his arms could wrap around Sylvain’s waist, so he could press his lips to Sylvain’s exposed collarbone. As if on instinct, his legs twined with Sylvain’s—and Sylvain’s body responded in kind, forcing a pleased little whine from his chest.

He knew he wanted this, but he’d never realized how much he craved it.

“You may think it repulsive,” Dimitri hummed, his tone electrifying across Sylvain’s skin, “but I like you a bit…untamed. Uncontrolled. Messy.” His lips brushed along the dip between Sylvain’s collarbone, just enough to tease.

Sylvain couldn’t help the small tremble, his fingers brushing up through Dimitri’s hair. Oh, this man’s hair was still damp, a delightfully sweet floral smell in the air with Sylvain’s every touch—was it his soap? It had to be; Dimitri’s (or the one Dedue had insisted he use) was more spiced, warmer. And no one else in the army wanted to smell like, quoting Felix, ‘an insipid flower bed.’ As if Felix had any idea what taste even was.

“I…missed you,” Dimitri muttered, nosing under Sylvain’s jaw. “I worried you were upset with me.”

Sylvain groaned, biting his lip to try and muffle himself. Not that anyone was likely to hear him past his walls and Dimitri’s, but he wasn’t entirely confident in his self control. Besides, he had been upset, but it was unlikely that he and Dimitri were using the same definition. “Why’s that?”

“I’d thought…you’d come to my bed.” Dimitri’s hands brushed along his sides, a small satisfied noise passing his lips as he realized Sylvain hadn’t any shirt on at all. “That we’d continue our…ritual.”

“You’re the one who didn’t talk to me,” Sylvain muttered, enjoying the brush of Dimitri’s blunted nails along his side, “thought you were done with it.”

Dimitri paused, pulling back just enough to look Sylvain in the eyes. But his hands were firm—very firm—keeping Sylvain in place, firmer still as his face flushed even in the darkness of the room. “You never spoke to me outside of those moments.”

Sylvain groaned. Oh, he’d misread everything. Of course Dimitri would look too much into this, that he’d do something because he thought that’s what Sylvain wanted. “We were on a mission! The last thing we needed was a soldier thinking you were fooling around with the resident whore.”

Dimitri scowled. “Sylvain, you are hardly a—” His face twisted.

“True.” Sylvain mused. “They at least get paid for their services.”

Dimitri’s scowl deepened, pinching Sylvain fiercely in a way that most definitely was going to leave a bruise. “Sylvain.”

Sylvain sighed, idly running his fingers through Dimitri’s hair. “If they thought you were messing around with me…or…or thought you and I were—whatever we are—you’d lose respect among your soldiers. They’d wonder why you’d waste your time—any sane person would.”

“Is that what you think?” Dimitri asked, tilting his head so he could press a kiss to Sylvain’s wrist.

“I’m nothing if not self-aware.”

“Never where it matters,” Dimitri mused, his eye half-lidded as he stared at Sylvain in a way that made Sylvain feel like his blood was going to catch fire. His gaze slid down, focused on Sylvain’s throat in a way that made the way Sylvain swallowed seem way too loud, especially as Dimitri muttered, “‘Whatever we are’…”

“I mean,” Sylvain babbled, “it’s not like we’re—”

He yelped as Dimitri bit at the skin just beneath his jaw, sucking a bruise that was sure to last a week at least. Sylvain’s weak, whining protests, his shoving at Dimitri’s shoulders to try and get away—worthless. It only made Dimitri even more determined, arms wrapping firmly around Sylvain’s waist to keep him in place.

Sylvain was rendered a panting, flushed mess when Dimitri finally pulled away, acting like he’d never had a damn hickey in his life, or that he’d never left hundreds in his wake.

“Whatever we are,” Dimitri repeated, his voice a low rumble that made Sylvain even less coherent. “I’d hoped…my sentiments were clear.”

Sylvain swallowed, his fingers brushing against the new mark. It was warm, and it was sensitive. “That so.”

Dimitri stared at him, his gaze so intense that it made Sylvain shudder. He knew that look—knew it too well. He could half imagine he had it on his own face half the time when he knew Dimitri wasn’t looking, when he didn’t have to fear the consequences of an affection that refused to be contained.

But, right now, he wasn’t sure he could face it properly. Not without decades of protection and deflection getting in his way. He looked away, cheeks heated in his shame at his own weakness. “…Can we talk about this later?”

Dimitri blinked, his expression shattering almost immediately into something painfully neutral. His hand slid down Sylvain’s side—fleeting, like he was about to—

“It’s not a rejection!” Sylvain nearly yelled, wrapping his arms around Dimitri’s neck. Desperate to keep him close. “I just…I can’t trust myself to do this right.” He swallowed. “Tomorrow. Let’s talk tomorrow. After…I bathe. Okay?”

Dimitri exhaled slowly, hurt still in his expression. But it was better than nothing. Even better when, after a long silence, he pressed a kiss to the mark he left, settling back where he belonged. “Tomorrow.”

And, if Sylvain wasn’t a complete idiot, he’d have Dimitri like this for longer than just tomorrow.