Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun was already setting, hanging low in the sky, guiding Claude’s eyeline and leading him to frown thoughtfully across the archery range toward its farthest targets. As the days had warmed, the sun’s light grew longer, but he had overestimated how much time that would give him for practice today. And as the year wore on, things had seemingly only gotten busier—more chaotic, dangerous. A combination that demanded a certain level of skill—and luck, Claude hated to admit—just to survive. And hardly enough time for cultivating that skill outside the battlefield itself.

If Claude had it in him to laugh at himself, he probably would; he certainly felt like he could use a good one these days. Dodging death across his childhood in Almyra only to seemingly find himself running straight toward it here in Fodlan, and with very little to show for it, too. It seemed like each question Claude had followed like thread toward its source only revealed another knot, another tangle—another place where it broke off entirely.

Life’s a bit of a joke, kiddo, Nader used to tell him, best get used to living on both sides of the punchline.

And Claude, often between one ill-conceived attack against him and his own meticulously plotted revenge, thought he got what Nader was telling him. But it was only these days that Claude was beginning to understand just how true his old trainer’s words really were. That sometimes you saw the punchline coming and chose to keep moving toward it anyway. 

Claude sighed, trying to push the thoughts aside. There was no use dwelling on things he couldn’t solve, or fix, and the thorny history of secrets and ambiguous truths that clung to the monastery walls, rooted themselves in its foundation, were hardly within his reach today. And if he started thinking of all the ways he’d set himself up to play the fool recently, well, then he’d lose the day’s light entirely.

Claude pulled his bow from its sheath, deciding to make the best of the situation, and that now was as good a time as any to practice shooting in variable and low light. He had a good eye, but not the best—Cyril, Claude had noticed, seemed capable of discerning much farther, and Shamir, no surprise, had an incredible night vision. But shooting under less than ideal conditions had lately become the rule rather than the exception, and Claude preferred to face his disadvantages head on. Then he could work around them. 

Studying his bow, Claude completed a minor inspection of the weapon, checking the string and ensuring its tautness. The bow looked good, he had a full quiver of well repaired arrows— his preference for training—and his most comfortable training leathers rested over a fitted gold tank, Claude being one of the last to concede that Garreg Mach had finally moved into weather that could conceivably be classified as warm.

Still, as he readied his stance in front of a group of targets, the nervous energy that thrummed under his skin did not calm, and he found himself adjusting, minutely, again and then again, overly conscious of his grip on the bow or the distribution of his weight across his hips. Claude made three less than perfect shots—something he should have been more than capable of given the distance he stood from the targets—and then sighed, dropping his arms and letting the bow rest against his thigh.

This wasn’t working.

Usually, Claude found training an ideal time for thinking. Muscle memory could take over, and his thoughts would be free to wander, latching onto problems he had encountered throughout the day and teasing out their solutions. Today, however… he could not seem to clear his mind enough to actually give himself room to think, and he’d caught himself in an unpleasant loop of physical feedback—focused on his body, self-conscious of the feel of his movements, like his skin fit worse today than it did yesterday.  

Claude brought one hand to his face, pinching the outer bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, right at the corners of his eyes, hoping the combination of pressure and manufactured darkness would clear his thoughts. He held like that for a moment, trying not to think of anything at all.

And then, the air shifted. Claude tensed. Someone else was here with him.

He paused to get a better sense of the other’s location, distantly thankful he had not given into his initial urge to drop his bow to the ground and then himself along with it.

Then, bow raised with the motion, Claude pivoted toward the direction in which he sensed the extra presence and found… Dimitri. Claude sighed. 

Dimitri. Sure, why not.

Dimitri held both hands in the air, giving Claude an awkward smile and then an oddly charming little wave with just the fingers of one hand. Dimitri then lowered his arms in tandem with Claude’s bow, taking his cues from Claude, although the situation hardly called for such precautions. If Claude thought he was in danger, he would have already shot.

And Dimitri was certainly dangerous—he’d seen him in battle enough to be well aware of it—but Claude had never been on the receiving end of that intense, singular violence himself. More often than not, Dimitri offered Claude the same politely inscrutable prince he granted everyone else. And even at his most spontaneous, his most open, Claude could not ignore that Dimitri still moved like one fettered, his chains self-imposed. It piqued Claude’s interest, got the gears in his head turning, thinking of what exactly Dimitri would feel the need to hold so tight, cover so completely.

Watching Dimitri’s slow and cautious movements, then, Claude wondered vaguely who this entire show of docility was truly for. If Dimitri wanted his presence to be more innocuous than honest, as if gentle movement alone was enough to masquerade the strength of a predator. Regardless, Claude knew better. Dimitri was quicker than he looked, more adaptive than his stiff, formal demeanor tended to make him appear. 

Claude smirked, a greeting and an acknowledgement of his own thoughts. At the very least, Claude had an inkling of just how adaptable Dimitri could let himself be, when he set aside the crown long enough to remember how to move without its weight. 

“My apologies, Claude,” Dimitri began, and Claude had to resist the urge to visibly deflate. So this was the Dimitri he would be getting today—the distant, courteous prince. The porcelain stranger. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Although, I would not have considered my approach exceptionally silent. Certainly not against your usual perceptiveness.”

Claude hated how easy it was to let his smirk soften, his posture relax. Dimitri had a dry sort of wit that Claude suspected hid a disposition that favored exasperation over patience, and Claude often found himself enjoying it a bit too much, a bit too amused when he caught Dimitri saying something straight that was intended to be read a little sideways. But the giddy sort of enjoyment was hard to resist: Dimitri, a little curt, a little rude, a shade too dry or haughty for the humor to be pleasant. A bit of contrast added to the prince’s portrait; something that fixed his outline more solidly before Claude’s eyes.

“We all have our blinds spots,” Claude conceded causally, “and I was just lost in thought.” 

Dimitri nodded, approaching cautiously regardless, as if Claude was easily spooked, prone to being startled.

“I understand the feeling,” Dimitri replied, an agreeable non-statement. Then, Dimitri made a face that meant he was considering whether or not to say what he was actually thinking—a slight press of his lips, turned down just a fraction at the corners. Dimitri looked away; he’d keep his thoughts to himself, then. “Well, you do seem rather preoccupied, Claude.” Hardly, Claude thought, but remained silent. “And I would not want to bother you.”

Claude stared in disbelief as Dimitri actually made to leave, taking a step backwards rather than turning around, as if he felt it necessary to watch Claude as he went. 

“Wait, what? What are you doing? You didn’t come here for no reason.”

Claude took a moment to study Dimitri more carefully. He was out of his usual attire, uniform and cape discarded in favor of a training outfit not dissimilar to Claude’s own. A fitted long sleeve black tunic and some training leathers, lightweight and moveable. Though, Claude noted with mental sigh, he had forgone neither the gloves nor his usual metal gauntlets. Even with the harshest part of the day long past, Dimitri had to be sweltering.

Dimitri, for his part, rubbed the back of his neck nervously, giving Claude another stilted half-smile.

“Ah, yes. Well, the professor believes I should… diversify, I suppose, and has recommended that I sit for the archer certification exam,” Dimitri explained, eyes seeming to drift between Claude, the range, and then to the forest afar. “I am not unfamiliar with the bow, but my experience lies in a style more suited to hunting than combat, so I was thinking to get in some practice before the end of the month.”

Claude nodded, supposing that made sense. “Does Faerghus have any sort of bow culture?”

It wasn’t really something that Claude immediately associated with the trappings of knighthood that he tended to imagine when he considered Faerghus, but well. Neither was Dimitri, in some ways, the more Claude had gotten to know the boy behind the title, and Claude wasn’t really content to restrict himself to superficial impressions or stereotypes regardless. Almost all things promised some sort of hidden facet worth digging into, and Claude could hardly keep himself from pressing fingers into the cracks of an obvious facade to try and feel out what lay beneath.

Dimitri brought a hand to his chin as he considered the question, before replying, “Not as such, no. Or perhaps ‘culture’ is simply not a fit descriptor. While knowledge of the bow is not uncommon, and it is a popular tool for hunting, typically this feeds back into broader values related to self-sufficiency and survivorship, rather than placing emphasis on the tool itself. Does that… answer your question?”

And then some, Claude thought, but held his tongue. Dimitri wasn’t overly sensitive, not exactly, but he took things to heart, and Claude couldn’t always predict where his soft spots were hiding.

If Claude made some cheeky comment about Dimitri’s tendency to over-explain, would he get one of Dimitri’s dry retorts as a reward? Or, would Dimitri shrink inward, turn taciturn, crawl back into that armor he used to present the world a prince when Claude had asked for Dimitri? 

Claude thought of the last time he was alone with Dimitri, and—

Claude stifled a grimace, deciding it was best to just play it safe.

“Yeah, that all makes sense. Then,” Claude redirected the subject back to where they started, “you’re not actually going to leave, right? Since you need to practice?”

Dimitri looked as though, more than anything, he wanted to do just that. It made something cold and heavy settle in Claude’s stomach, not an unfamiliar feeling, but an unpleasant one. Like he had soured a situation just from his presence, but worse. Because under that ugly feeling was another: disappointed expectations, a hope that Claude had nurtured without even realizing. 

Claude brought one hand to his hip, digging into skin with his thumb, the closest thing he would consciously allow himself to a tell. It was fine, then. There was no need to keep… observing, let alone ask, because that was Claude’s answer, as if it hadn’t already been clear enough. 

But Dimitri took a measured breath—his version of a sigh, Claude suspected—before saying, “No, you are right, of course. I really should get in some training before the exam. I am somewhat worried about some of the more sophisticated maneuvers associated with the physical portion of certification. Combat archery demands a certain grace that I tend to find lacking in myself.”

“I could always help you out.” The words escaped Claude before he had even registered their existence, before he could catch them and force them back down. 

Dimitri froze as his eyes widened. He gripped his arm as he answered, and Claude stifled a wince at hearing the stilted sound of the metal creak. “I would not want to… put you out in such a way, Claude. I know you have been especially busy lately.”

…And how did Dimitri know that?

As far as Claude could tell, Dimitri had been doing a rather admirable impression of a ghost lately—silent, closed off, just out of sight. No longer lingering outside the training grounds to discuss their monthly missions as they walked back to the dorms together. Uncharacteristically absent from his late nights fettered to the financial ledgers in the library—a task that Dimitri had approached with such single-minded and methodical determination that Claude knew Dimitri could not have abandoned it, making his absence all the more conspicuous on nights Claude expected to find him there.

Theoretically, Dimitri kept a consistent enough routine that to find him was merely a matter of following it to him, but… something about that implacable consistency rendered him less approachable rather than more. Dimitri had adjusted his daily habit to create space for Claude before, making it all the more difficult to justify his presence when that space disappeared. 

Dimitri hadn’t vanished, not exactly, but he had turned to smoke, hardly visible even when he could be seen, hardly tangible when he was close enough to touch. Avoiding him, Claude had decided, and their current stilted exchanges—Dimitri more awkward, more formal than even his usual—acted as little more than confirmation.

It stung, but it was scarcely a new feeling. Claude grew up with rejection, in the steady company of loneliness; they were not companions easily forgotten.

“Would I have offered if I felt put out? It’s up to you, but I took that test a few months ago. I know exactly what’s on it,” Claude replied, apparently intent on finding a hole and seeing how far he could dig his way down. He caught Dimitri’s eyes as he spoke, projecting casual even as his thoughts felt scattered, old emotions and memories unpleasantly mixing with new. 

“Well, if you are certain,” Dimitri conceded, sounding less than certain himself. Yet he smiled—bare, close mouthed, with an endearing shyness, like such an act would not be welcome, like he was the one playing wary, unsure. It was a dangerous smile, as far as Claude was concerned, a hazard, as it made him liable to continue seeking the prince out, continue enjoying his presence, and continue wanting to draw nearer still.

And as ill advised as such desires had been before, recent events made them feel downright pitiful. And Claude hated feeling like he was in a position to be felt sorry for, with the privacy of self-pity hardly acting as consolation to a more public humiliation.

Claude nodded, electing not to reply directly. He glanced away, looking between the targets, the fading light, and then back to Dimitri. “So… the end of the month, right? That’s not a lot of time, and these are not really the best conditions for basic practice, but we’ll make it work. Why don’t we start with your form, yeah? And then we can see if you actually manage to hit anything.”

Dimitri nodded, that slight curve of his lips still present. “I certainly hope so. If my abilities have degraded so completely, I fear we will be past the point of all hope.” 

Claude snorted. “You have quite the flair for melodrama, Highness. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Heh, no begging necessary.” Claude threw in a wink, somehow managing to cut off an unless you’re into that before it escaped his mouth, a welcome sign that perhaps his good sense hadn’t left him after all. 

Dimitri just rolled his eyes, but his expression was almost… fond. Or maybe just amused. He pulled his bow from his back, unsheathing it, and then he gestured his head toward the set of close and mid-range targets in a silent question.

“Closer ones for now, I’d say,” Claude decided, “and then we can move around a bit after we see what we’re working with.”

Dimitri nodded again, strangely quiet, almost subdued. He took his stance, and Claude batted the observation from his mind, instead focusing his attention on analyzing Dimitri’s form. 

Claude’s gaze traveled up the lines of Dimitri’s body, feeling a dull heat in his cheeks that he hoped his complexion was doing work to conceal. The prince was too attractive for his own good, too unaware of it for Claude’s. His silhouette structuring something picturesque with little to suggest anything in the way of a deliberate effort, accented by a regal air that cast Dimitri's good looks as arresting rather than merely appealing. Dimitri looked like some fabled prince, with his training garments and flushed cheeks from the heat doing very little to temper the impression. 

Eyes tracing up the line of Dimitri’s thigh, the curve of his backside, a narrow waist that led up to broad shoulders—really, Claude thought, it was a bit ridiculous. And somehow Dimitri’s current attire simply made his attractive figure all the more apparent, all the more distracting; maybe it was the lack of cape, Claude considered, or the leather armor that sat differently across his chest. 

“Ah, Claude?” Dimitri called out, “How, um—how does this look?”

Claude blinked. Whoops. 

Moving closer to Dimitri, Claude came up behind him to tap the place between his shoulder blades lightly. “Your form’s fine, Dimitri.” Technically perfect, almost, like an illustration from a book. Flawless, rigid, lifeless. “But you’re too tense and kind of stiff. You need to loosen up, so you can adapt your aim more readily.”

Dimitri tried to do as Claude suggested, his shoulders losing a hint of their uncomfortable rigidity. Claude watched as the rest of him tightened up as if to compensate, his legs locking, his arms flexing from the exertion of being held exactly in place.

This wasn’t going to work.

Perhaps Dimitri was the type who learned best by example. 

“Hm,” Claude said, thinking aloud. “Worth a shot.”

“Wha—“

Using the flat, inner side of his foot, Claude struck the back of Dimitri's knee, and his legs immediately buckled. Dimitri let out a startled yelp, falling backwards onto the ground in shock as the unexpected shift in his center of gravity proved too much to compensate for. 

Claude almost felt bad once Dimitri put together exactly what had happened, looking up at Claude in a sort of wounded annoyance. But just almost.

It was just a little bit funny, too, and Claude was hardly one to let a good feeling pass by unacknowledged, unenjoyed. His Royal Highness, trying to glare up at Claude and brush dirt off his back at the same time, pouting as neither effort seemed to have its intended effect. Claude wanted to laugh, but not so much at Dimitri as with him, if only Dimitri would take the hint that this was the sort of silly, meaningless thing that they could laugh about together.

And… Claude liked Dimitri’s laugh. Given the chance, he’d like to startle one out of him more often, but that wasn’t the type of work Dimitri made easy. Dimitri’s laughter was rare, often smothered, or otherwise reserved for things—such as Alois’s... jokes—so far from Claude’s idea of funny he had little desire to try and replicate them anyway. Claude filed the thought away; a problem for another day.

“Don’t lock your knees either,” Claude instructed, perhaps telegraphing his amusement just a tad too much, and then held out his hand as a peace offering. Dimitri eyed it suspiciously, before taking it, letting Claude haul him to his feet. 

Claude made an unexpected grunt when pulling up Dimitri required a greater effort than he anticipated, and he hardly failed to notice Dimitri’s small little smirk at the noise, though he didn’t comment. 

Dimitri bent to pick his bow up off the ground, giving Claude a wary look that dropped into something more accommodating as he asked, “Again?”

At Claude’s nod, Dimitri retook his earlier stance. 

“Ha! Well, you can’t be that upset, Highness. You really are looking much better.”

And Claude meant it. Dimitri retained his good form and excellent posture, but the unnecessary strain had decreased. He still held himself firmer, more erect, than Claude would choose for himself, but Claude knew he could only lead Dimitri so far before the prince would stick his feet in the ground and go no farther. He had seen that very stubbornness in the way Dimitri held a lance or swung a sword; he couldn’t feel all that surprised that he found it here, too. 

Dimitri glanced at Claude out of the corner of his eye, through the curtain of his bangs. He looked just a shade off from pristine: his armor had shifted slightly on his chest; some dirt still clung to his back. His hair was tousled, messy, his bangs a worse sort of disaster than even their usual. Claude wanted to reach out and run his fingers through them, push them back against Dimitri’s forehead, trail his fingertips down the side of his face.

Claude put his hand on his hip and leaned back as he squeezed, realizing belatedly that Dimitri had hardly moved away when he stood. Smile airy, Claude tried to make himself feel far away, too far to reach.  

Still, the moment was quiet, strangely charged, inescapable. Dimitri could have that effect, Claude had noticed; he would not let a moment that he felt deserved the full weight of his sincerity go by lightly, without recognition of its significance. Dimitri dropped his stance, turning toward Claude, eyes fixed on him all the while. His expression was unreadable, strangely blank in its intensity, and the uncertainty that cultivated was enough to have Claude on edge, conflicted enough to start eying a path to retreat.

“Claude, I—”

“Wow, it’s really getting late, huh?” Claude cut him off, looking past Dimitri and into the distance, eyes set on the fading light of the day as it bled to orange up from the tree line. “Maybe we should pick this back up later? We’re not gonna be able to get much else done with the light going.”

“I—of course,” Dimitri replied in a tone less like agreement and more like defeat. Claude wondered if Dimitri was hoping to leave this encounter as a one off, if that explained the way he shifted uncomfortably at Claude’s words. Claude watched as Dimitri’s pressed his lips together, considering. He looked away to avoid the reality that Dimitri would likely do so first. “If that is still agreeable to you, that is. I know you offered to help me today, but that doesn’t me I expect you—”

“What did I say? I offered, right? So, I meant it.” 

“Yes… indeed. Well, how about tomorrow, then? Perhaps after classes? That should give us plenty of time.”

Claude nodded, resisting the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Too noticeable. 

“Tomorrow, then. I look forward to it.” Dimitri nodded as he spoke, tone clipped as if reading from a page, and then promptly used the words to dismiss himself. He was gone without even putting his bow back in its sheath, carrying each separately in both hands. 

Which was just as well, Claude supposed. He had been too busy formulating the finer points of his own quick escape to allow himself any sort of higher ground to call Dimitri out on his. 

***

The following day, Claude decided it would be in his best interest to beat Dimitri to the archery range. He slipped out of the Golden Deer classroom as soon as Hanneman finished lecturing, dodging Lorenz who seemed fit to extemporize about something or another and flashing Hilda an obnoxious wink when she failed to stop him long enough to talk him into doing some completely manageable task in her stead. He felt a little less victorious when her answering arched eyebrow was too calculating, too perceptive, but only just a little. 

He had brought his bow and training clothes with him to class, so it was just a matter of quickly changing and then slipping through the general training grounds to the archery range located behind them. While he waited for Dimitri, he completed a few warm up stretches, feeling his muscles out and trying to pinpoint any problem areas. He had received a minor shoulder injury during last month’s mission, but the lingering soreness had finally dissipated completely, he noted with relief. 

Claude closed his eyes, taking a moment to just feel the sun on his face. The weather was exceptionally fair today, warm with a breeze, sunny with a few clouds. The kind of day worth getting lost in. 

He only opened his eyes when he heard Dimitri approaching. 

Dimitri was wearing an approximation of yesterday’s outfit; dark, monochrome, leather armor, gloves. But…

“You changed your gauntlets.” Claude blurted, and then wondered if maybe he should have pretended not to have noticed. But it was true. In place of Dimitri’s usual metal affair were a pair of leather, lace-down vambraces that extended from mid-forearm to cover his palms, looping through the crease between his fingers and thumb, and ending right under where his knuckles began. 

“Yes,” Dimitri agreed, and Claude figured that would be the end of it. But Dimitri continued, staring down at the leather as he tightened one hand into a fist and then relaxed it again. He kept his eyes on his splayed fingers as he spoke. “To be truthful, it feels strange without their weight, and the resistance they provide. It is not much on either account, and yet, it can be helpful, that restriction, when trying to handle things that require delicacy. I can’t even remember—Well. I figured it might be more useful to privilege dexterity and finger movement over other such things?” 

Ending on something like a question, Dimitri finally looked up, pinning Claude with an expectant sort of stare, as though waiting for a particular response. Claude could only nod as he got to his feet, something dry and tight caught in his throat. What… what was Dimitri telling him, exactly? What was Claude meant to understand? To give back, now that Dimitri had offered this small piece of himself?

Dimitri cultivated barriers the way Claude fostered ambiguity, misdirection. Whatever secrets Dimitri hid, he integrated them into himself like living armor, and Claude wondered if the only way to truly get a good look at Dimitri was to break him open, spill blood and crack ribs, peel back layers to reveal the heart that rested at the center of it all. 

Jeez. Claude resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose in self-directed distaste; what a bizarre and macabre image. And all over a new pair of gloves.  

As if to prove his point, when Claude met Dimitri’s gaze again, his eyes were clear and shallow, no shadows to be found. If there was any expectation, the moment had passed. Or perhaps it really was as simple as their training; perhaps Dimitri really was as straightforward as that. 

“We have plenty of light today,” Claude said, changing the subject and turning his back to Dimitri to stare at the targets afield. “I suppose we’ll start close and work our way outward. The archer exam requires close and mid-range proficiency, but if you want to demonstrate enough mastery to eventually get into the advanced bow classes, you’ll need to really shine at long range and in adversarial conditions, as well. 

“Although,” Claude considered, feeling a belated self-consciousness, playing it off as a flippant remark. “I’m sure you already know all that.”

Chances were Dimitri knew what would be on the exam just as well as Claude did, which made his agreeing to Claude’s help all the more strange. If Dimitri really planned to sit for certification at the end of the month, then there was very little Claude could offer him in the way of training if he didn’t have the necessary skill already.

Claude grimaced at the thought that he had somehow pushed himself onto Dimitri without even realizing it, as if he had somehow not gotten enough of existing where he wasn’t welcome and had fashioned such a scenario to deposit himself right back into. It was a pathetic thought, and Claude tried to reason that he knew himself well enough to reject it. His understanding of Dimitri was another question, one which seemed like all his options were the wrong answer, or as though he committed a basic miscalculation, the unidentifiable mistake staring up at him plainly from the page. 

“Yes, that is about how the professor explained it,” Dimitri answered readily enough. “I’m not so sure I will require all that. I honestly cannot see myself actually taking to the bow in combat, but…”

“But Teach convinced you to try it anyway, huh?”

“Ah, well.” Dimitri’s blush was a bit too boyish, too cute, standing out brightly against his pale complexion. “Something like that.” 

It made Claude smile, which he quickly fixed into a smirk when he read the implications of Dimitri’s reddened face in the context of his words. It was either that or grimace. “Got a crush, then, eh?”  

Dimitri frowned immediately, response sharp. “What is it with you and that?”

Claude threw his hands up, acting more innocent than he felt. “Hey, no need to get so defensive. Though maybe that’s an answer in and of itself, hm? Admittance is the first step, Highness.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, and he turned away from Claude toward the far end of the grounds. “I think we should just get started.”

Claude didn’t reply, too fixated on the fact that Dimitri hadn’t actually answered Claude’s gibe, not even to deny it.

He followed Dimitri without comment, accepting the stifling silence that now hung between them as what he deserved for pushing. The feeling sat in his chest, bitter and guilty, the familiar unease he felt after prying when he knew better. But if he could just be certain—

“Should we start with my form again?” Dimitri’s question pulled Claude out of his own head and back into the moment. 

Claude nodded, then realized Dimitri still wasn’t facing him, and simply said, “Yeah, I think so.”

Dimitri pulled out his bow without further comment, performing a cursory inspection of it that resembled Claude’s own. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he turned toward Claude and nodded again before taking his stance.

Claude studied his form closely, resisting the urge to reach out a hand and smooth it along Dimitri’s shoulder, then down his back, resting right between his scapulas. Would it soothe Dimitri? Would it help him ease up, uncoil? 

He took a step forward, and Dimitri tensed. Claude felt his stomach drop to his feet. 

“Are you going to kick me again?” 

“Would it work a second time?” Claude shot back, light and breezy, thinking he rallied rather admirably from the whiplash caused by his own overthinking.

He also thought he might enjoy getting a swift kick himself, if he could find a way to work up a decent self-directed swing; maybe he’d antagonize Dimitri into doing it for him. 

Dimitri huffed out something like a laugh. “Doubtful, but you’re a bit too fond of experimentation for my liking.” Dimitri turned and dropped his bow at the same time, resting it against his hip, rubbing his thumb lightly against the grip as he spoke. “I wouldn’t put it past you to try it a second time just to see if it would.” 

It was not the most flattering assessment of his character, but Claude supposed he hadn’t exactly done himself any favors in earning it. He shrugged, trying not to examine if Dimitri’s sentiment truly bothered him or not. 

“I like your inquisitivity, Claude,” Dimitri continued, either sensing something of Claude’s true thoughts or not finished with the original assessment regardless. “This is merely one instance I’d prefer not to find myself on the receiving end of it.” 

He turned back away from Claude, but not before Claude noticed the dull red that settled on his cheeks, the way Dimitri shifted his head so that his bangs fell more completely over his eyes. “Perhaps you could… guide my bearing, this time? Show me what I’m doing wrong. You can correct my posture directly.”

Dimitri retook his stance before Claude could reply, his mouth dry and a trivializing remark lodged somewhere in his throat. 

When Claude stepped forward, Dimitri remained still, almost no reaction at all. Claude placed a firm hand on Dimitri’s back, right beneath his left shoulder, running his fingers outward toward the edge of Dimitri’s torso. “Here,” Claude said, voice lowering, “you’re too tense here. Try relaxing your back and shoulders like you did yesterday.” 

Dimitri acted as Claude suggested, dropping his shoulders incrementally and settling into a posture just a hair more natural, coiled less tight. Claude stepped closer, keeping a marginal width of space between them, before using his own foot to nudge Dimitri’s heel inward. “And here. You’ll be less likely to lock your legs if you angle your feet a bit more, add a micro-bend to your knees.”

Dimitri continued to follow Claude’s instruction, not saying anything, not reacting at all as Claude led him through the adjustments with short explanations and a guiding touch. His ending form modeled a very near replica of where they started, but the modifications created a posture that compromised Dimitri’s implacable physicality with the fluidity required by the bow. Claude smiled, his hand still lingering over the left side of Dimitri’s ribcage, and he could feel Dimitri’s heartbeat against his palm. Even, steady. 

Dimitri remained in Claude’s revised position, almost statuesque, not reacting even when Claude trailed his fingers along and back between his shoulder blades, only removing them as he said, “Good. That’s better.” Dimitri nodded, holding the rest of his body still as he ducked his head in acknowledgement. “How long could you hold this, if you needed to?” 

“Hours. Or longer, I suppose. As a child, I learned combat first with a sword, then a lance. The bow was a tool for teaching… patience, or perhaps fortitude, more than anything else.” At Claude’s curious look, he continued, “I recall… spending an Autumn night on a mountain outside Fhirdiad with only a bow and the instructions of my trainer. A friend and I were simply told to ‘go catch a deer’ and then left to our devices.” An oddly nostalgic note entered into Dimitri’s voice, and he looked far away. “I remember being so worried, thinking that we might return empty-handed. We spent the entire night in a tree, bows at the ready, hardly moving.”

“And did you catch one?” 

Dimitri frowned, eyes downcast. “No. It wasn’t really about the deer, I came to understand, but… no. We never even saw one. Still, it was often training of that nature when I was instructed with the bow. Lessons not really in bowmanship at all.” 

Claude felt himself smile in understanding. “Honestly, that sounds a bit familiar. My old combat instructor used to love to throw me into weird situations and then expect me to work myself out of them alone. Half the time, I’d get myself into a worse predicament than where I started, and he’d just laugh at me. Said it was good for my ego.” 

“Hmm… perhaps it was not so successful a treatment as he thought,” Dimitri replied innocently, almost bland. He remained deadpan in face of Claude’s playfully ironic scoff, not reacting in the slightest. His stoicism broke only when Claude attempted to shove him between the shoulders for the comment, the action itself doing nothing at all to budge Dimitri’s person. Dimitri expected the retaliation, and his strength rendered him immune, immovable. He remained as still as stone, a perfect statue, but something in Claude’s expression or—more likely—his futile attempts at retribution broke his composure, and Dimitri dropped his stance and smiled slyly, pressing his fingers to his lips as though to prevent laughter. “I’m sorry, Claude. I don’t even believe that, I’m afraid. The opportunity was… simply too good to resist, a feeling you no doubt can understand.”

“Wow, you’re really laying into me today, Your Princeliness. Might as well get it all out. Is my hair funny? My smile weird? Maybe you have a suggestion on the way I dress, while we’re at it?” Claude grabbed one of Dimitri’s arms as he spoke, and Dimitri, to Claude’s delight, let Claude shake him lightly in time with his questions. 

When Claude finished, hand still wrapped around Dimitri’s arm, Dimitri gave Claude a baffled sort of smile, replying almost instantly, “But I like all those things about you, Claude.” 

Claude sucked in a sharp breath, and Dimitri, if possible, froze more fully than he had yet managed. There was a beat—an agonizing, eternal moment—where neither of them said anything, and Claude figured they both might just meet their end in a moment of intense and mutually shared embarrassment. 

Claude self-consciously withdrew his hand from Dimitri’s arm, reaching up, touching his braid without thinking. Briefly, Dimitri echoed the motion, bringing his hand up before he appeared to realize what he was doing, and he dropped it just as quickly. Moving it behind his back, his whole arm tensing. 

“I—uh. That’s—Thanks,” Claude finished lamely, wincing internally.

He felt off balance in the face of Dimitri’s sincere honesty, if for no other reason than it failed to align with Claude’s previous understanding of the situation. For a moment he considered pushing back against Dimitri’s words, scuffing up the outermost layer to catch a hint of the truth that Claude knew must exist under it. Some hidden piece of the puzzle that connected Dimitri’s actions together in a way that Claude could accept.

But he held himself back; observation being safer than action, and that certainly felt true now, when Dimitri’s words hummed in Claude’s ears and his touch buzzed under Claude’s skin. It would be easy, Claude thought, so easy to let Dimitri pull him in like a wave, a hidden riptide. 

Dimitri gifted Claude a reticent little smile, somehow able to shake off his own words easier than Claude could. “Of course, Claude. Now… why don’t we actually get some training in before we lose the light again?”

Claude snorted, inelegant, grateful for the return to safer ground. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” and here Claude gave Dimitri a pointed, playful look, a light shove that Dimitri only smirked in response to, immovable once again, “but you’re the one getting us off track. Your form’s fine, but the money’s in the shots, Highness. Time to see what you’re made of.” 

Dimitri nodded obediently and turned back to the targets. They had agreed on starting with the nearest of them, which Dimitri acquitted himself on just fine. His form remained steady, his motions fluid—which Claude easily helped himself to some of the credit for, thought tucked away safely in the corner of his mind—and Claude could see the experience Dimitri had talked of in the smooth lines of his actions, muscle memory taking the lead as Dimitri aimed and shot and aimed again. 

Claude would hesitate to call Dimitri anything approaching a natural bowman—his movements had the precise, mechanical air of proficiency through study rather than aptitude, but he was no novice, either. 

“Honestly, you’re not half bad,” Claude observed. “Let’s move on to mid-distance.” 

Dimitri gave a self-conscious smile, nodding without comment. 

At mid-range, things became more problematic. Dimitri’s movements remained steady, technically sound, but his strength began to pose a more noticeable obstacle than before, and many of Dimitri’s efforts overshot or went wild. For as many arrows that Dimitri aimed true, an equal count flew over or past the target as Dimitri’s attempts to guide his shot clashed unfavorably with the marginal refinements he made to his draw to adapt to the increased distance. 

He began to shift incrementally, tensing his legs and then his back, then relaxing, then repeating the cycle. After a particularly disastrous round of misses, Dimitri’s frustration and exhaustion got the better of him. Hand on grip, arrow in nocking point, Dimitri breathed out as he raised his bow and pulled back, the same exact motions as before, careful and deliberate. And yet immediately, the bowstring snapped, and the arrow slipped and fell pitifully to the ground. Without the bow to guide him, Dimitri’s posture crumbled, his shoulders hunching defensively as he hung his head in something like defeat.

Dimitri stared down at the broken bow in his hands, holding one half of the snapped bowstring between thumb and finger, following it to the breaking point and staring at it vacantly, near melancholy. Claude found it a little strange, if only because he figured Dimitri would have gotten used to the hazards of his strength; it seemed an oddly frequent event not to harden his heart against. 

“Well, it was just the string, so no big deal, right? You could probably shatter the bow itself without even trying, but this is a way simpler fix,” Claude said, his attempt at conciliatory, tilting his head to try to catch Dimitri’s eyes. “We’ve been working for a while anyways, so it seems we found a natural place to wrap things up.”

Dimitri gave a miserable half nod in response, straightening from his position and gripping the bow in front of himself, held tightly in both hands. “Yes, I suppose we have.”

“When should we pick this back up? Certification exams are at the end of next week, right?”

Dimitri crossed his arms, bow coming to rest against the side of his torso, under his elbow. He frowned thoughtfully. “Midweek, actually, for archer. They rescheduled intermediate exams to accommodate the knights’ increased guard schedule. Unfortunately, I will be… busy throughout these next few days.” Dimitri pressed his lips together, mouth pulling tight at the corners, considering. “Could you do Sunday?”

Sunday. Claude’s day off. And Claude was a well known lover of days off. At the beginning of the year, it was a good opportunity to explore more personal, frivolous interests and curiosities. Claude looked back almost fondly on the first few moons at the academy, remembering when Sylvain went around good-naturedly warning anyone who would listen to hold their breath while walking past Claude’s room on a Sunday afternoon, lest they subject themselves to whatever fumes (or said fumes’ side effects) his various experimentations had the habit of producing. 

These days Claude usually just used them to catch up on sleep. Or to stare tiredly up at his ceiling, tracing with his eyes the grooves and textures in the paint as though following the patterns of the stars. Cataloging cracks and discoloration when sleep just would not come. Claude could probably draw a map from memory, at this point.

“Sunday works,” Claude replied, mentally adjusting his Saturday night plans—another all-nighter in the Abyssian library—so he would show up as something a little more presentable than dead on his feet. “I’ll have Leonie get some new string to you later. She had some extra bowstring that was giving her some trouble—too hard to draw, arrows flying all over the place, stuff like that. It might be enough of an adjustment to help your wild shots, though.” 

Dimitri looked unconvinced, but nodded regardless. “I can ask her about it myself. We usually find ourselves at the training grounds together before lunch.” Dimitri then looked back down at the broken bow in his grip, then to the arrow left on the ground and the targets littered with the evidence of their training. “I should go straighten up from our training. Do not feel obligated to… wait around, Claude.”

Claude nodded absently, didn’t move from where he stood, hardly catching Dimitri’s last words at all.

He often passed by Dimitri at the training grounds in the mornings as he slipped through the common training area to make his way to the archery range behind. And he knew Felix and Dimitri often sparred after dinner, closing out their exercise for the day with a final, exhaustive bout. Before lunch with Leonie. Meeting up with Ingrid for lancing drills. Often found with Dedue and his axe in the knight’s hall. Yesterday at sunset with Claude, today after classes. 

Something sad and almost urgent pressed up against Claude’s ribs, expanding as he took a breath. It made him want to reach out slowly, steady Dimitri with his hand or hold him in place, in a stillness that required no exertion. Expected no followthrough to action. 

But reaching out was difficult, daunting. Risky in a way that was least suited to Claude’s penchant for occasionally throwing caution to the wind, taking the gamble because sometimes the prospect of what waited on the other side was worth the peril. And Claude knew in these matters it was his heart that was liable to take the hit. At some point Claude had begun curling around it, hunched over to keep it out of sight, out of mind, covered with both palms, and how could he take his hands away, now? How could he leave the delicate soft tissue vulnerable, exposed, fully visible in the last light of the day?

And Claude wasn’t sure how exactly, even if he could find it in himself to do so: how to reach out past his own smoke and mirrors and through the spiderweb cracks in the prince to get to Dimitri, how to press warm fingertips together as they inched their way closer to each other.

Claude remembered stories from when he was young, warnings told in tales of silly children. Small toddlers sticking their hands into unknown burrows, mysterious holes in rocks and the ground, only to experience the receiving end of a predator’s last line of defense. Two fangs pressed neatly, without cruelty, into a small hand, pain and death grasped by the very curiosity that had pushed palms and fingers forward. 

And Dimitri was not cruel, not unkind. He would hold out his hands so carefully, so still and steady, if Claude were to place something soft and small and a little worse for wear in his palms. But Claude could not ignore the risk, Dimitri’s capacity to hurt: he fractured teacups and shattered steel, even despite his best efforts, his practiced restraint. Claude was not delicate, but he knew he had his own cracks; pressure points just as inscrutable to the prince as Dimitri’s were to Claude. One wrong flex of his hands, and what would become of either of them?

And Claude could not help but to think to a few weeks ago, lying in the dirt on top of Dimitri, chasing the heat of his mouth like it was something that could escape if Claude was not close enough, if he didn’t push closer still. Claude had drawn back for a breath, for a dizzying attempt to put himself back on even keel, to watch his own fingers as they smoothed lines across Dimitri’s cheekbones like starlight across the night sky. And Dimitri had smiled up at him, his own hands mirroring Claude’s as they paused for a moment in silence together. Claude’s mind lingered on Dimitri’s hidden mirth, a little shy, but fond and pleased, like he had been the one to catch Claude and not the other way around. 

Claude absently touched his own lips in remembrance, disguising the movement by bringing thumb and forefinger to his mouth, pinching his bottom lip lightly as he sometimes did when he was lost in thought. He absently waved goodbye to Dimitri after he finished collecting his stray arrows and packing up his broken bow, making to depart and tilting his head in a question Claude pretended not to understand. Dimitri shouldered the rejection without comment, eye flicking away, leaving Claude standing alone with his thoughts. 

Without his permission, another memory settled in, covering the first like frost: 

Claude, startled awake from a light sleep by a strange noise. Dimitri curled up on the bed, tense even in sleep, pressed into himself and back against the wall on the far side of the bed. His hands tucked under his arms, and he had removed the gloves at some point, sometime after Claude himself dozed off, shallow and uneasy in an unfamiliar bed.

They had fumbled through an awkward sort of patchwork of physical intimacy, stilted and uneven as Claude would not let Dimitri watch him undress (nor watch him hide his spare dagger in the pile of clothes he dropped, deliberately, right next to the bed).

Or when Dimitri would not shed his undershirt, smiling sweetly as Claude removed his gauntlets but tense, uneasy when Claude placed his hands on the edges of his gloves. Snatching his hands back at the last instant when Claude made to remove them, too.

Claude, who pretended to miss Dimitri’s questioning stare at the small, crescent scar on his collarbone, raised and ugly and improperly treated, poorly healed. Who ignored the telegraphed concern as Dimitri’s thumb rubbed over, once and then again, the patchy, hypertrophic skin just below his neck, across his left shoulder—close encounters, memories he hadn’t wanted there, mixing in with giddy, fumbling newness of the moment. 

A series of embarrassing misunderstandings, sincere but clumsy caresses that belied two different sets of inexperience, two incongruous theoretical understandings revealed in starts and stops. And yet somehow, Claude and Dimitri still ended their efforts worn out, lying on their sides, facing each other and grinning, small and shy.

Dimitri touched Claude’s jaw, featherlight, hand warm even through the leather barrier, and Claude thought he knew best when quit when he was ahead. Claude shifted, tensing to rise—to leave—but Dimitri caught him first, right at the wrist, “You could stay.” 

Dimitri’s eyes were shadowed, piercing yet hesitant. More accommodating than honest, or so mixed up in one another it was difficult to say for sure. But... Claude wanted to. And it wasn’t often, anymore, that Claude let himself have what he wanted if it was something less sure, less safe, if the exit route had not already been mapped out beforehand.

“Okay.”

They shuffled around, beginning both on their sides, then their backs, before Dimitri suggested they curl together, Claude pressed up against Dimitri from behind, wrapping his arm around Dimitri’s torso and resting his chin on his shoulder. It was too warm to be so close: back to chest, legs rubbing together, Dimitri’s hands and arms pressed over Claude’s own. But, it felt… nice. He liked holding Dimitri, liked feeling his heartbeat against his own, liked the way their breathing evened out together, syncing up without effort.

And pressed together like this, Claude managed to drift to sleep. 

When he awoke, hours later, he felt the cold not on his skin but under it, maybe in his lungs or his bones, and he mirrored Dimitri’s pose without thought, wrapping his arms around himself as he stared at the other boy in the moonlight. 

Claude traced his eyes over Dimitri’s form, curled up like he could make himself smaller, less there. Claude recognized that feeling, a mirror held up to some of his own older, less pleasant memories: the urge to hide away in plain sight, to disappear when escape was not possible. 

It was not difficult, then, to read into the lines of Dimitri’s body, its unspoken language: his unease and his regret, the space he cultivated so uncomfortably between himself and Claude. Choosing distance over all other considerations.

His neck is gonna be sore in the morning, Claude thought, almost nonsensically. I wonder if his hands will cramp.

Claude wondered if he somehow missed it as it was forming: Dimitri’s intention to pull away. What else was Claude not seeing, tracing his eyes over every detail, every contour, only to overlook what was so evidently right in front of him? Claude considered if Dimitri ever even fell asleep. Or if he just laid there, endlessly patient, as he listened for Claude’s own breathing to even out, using that endless forbearance to wait for the ideal retreat. It sounded more like himself than Dimitri, Claude could admit, but Dimitri was craftier than he claimed, more capable of structuring a lie of omission or obfuscation than he would readily acknowledge. 

Claude pictured it. That steady stillness, arms rested assiduously over Claude’s own. Eventually, how Dimitri would have maneuvered himself out of Claude’s arms and as far away as the bed would allow, surely with the gentlest motions, the softest movements, careful and considerate even in rejection. Perhaps deciding to wait until morning to give Claude a muted sort of apology, putting a second distance back between them the way Dimitri best knew how: scripted kindness, opaque sincerity. 

Dimitri made that strange noise again, something urgent, some emotion that was hard to name, and he tensed and relaxed in fits in his own sleep. It made Claude sad to watch, and he thought about Dimitri’s morning paleness, his ever present eyebags. Vaguely wondered if Dimitri ever noticed Claude’s own, as they wore more noticeably into his face as the year trudged on. If either of them would know how to talk about it if he did.

Claude remembered reaching out, then, softly—so softly, so as not to wake Dimitri—pushing his bangs back from his forehead, resting light fingers on his hairline. Dimitri tensed further, relaxed, and then tensed again, seemingly outside the realm of Claude’s touch altogether. And Claude, absently, recalled a very old memory: his mother carding fingers through his hair as he slept fitfully through an illness. The touch calming Claude in his fever and exhaustion. 

Claude grazed his thumb over the line between Dimitri’s brows, allowed the motion to carry him through a light brush across his temple. Wondered if it was comfort, or just Claude, that Dimitri held himself back from. He let his hand linger, considering, but either possibility felt exactly the same.

And then he had gotten out of bed, and he left.