Chapter Text
Felix comes to. Or not?
His head swims. Pounds. His body - a writhing mess of nerves, pain, like he can't tell limb from limb. He's not sure if he's still in this plane of existence, it's so unlike anything he's felt before.
His vision swirls and spots. And then he's gone again.
***
Second try.
Head still swims, pounds. His body -- tingling, muted sensations, not the fiery pain from last time. Someone is closeby, murmuring.
He's frightened for several solid moments that perhaps he's lost his vision, but blobs of light and color begin to slowly gain focus.
Noises. Everything is muffled. His own breaths are short and painful, he realizes. It's not very fun being awake like this.
A canopy. A bed canopy. He's staring up at it. He wants to turn his head to the side, where sound comes from. But he tries and finds he simply cannot. It is too difficult. He has no energy. How long until he'll hold a sword again?
A figure he vaguely registers as a healer appears in his peripheral. Someone’s doing something to his arm, which he can't quite see. There is a swish of furs at the far end of the bed, the blur and noise of someone else.
As dull as his senses are right now, he knows who it is. Suddenly he has the energy to try pushing himself up on his elbows and is immediately punished with a flash of pain in his abdomen that spreads out over his whole body, response jab of a headache; he's laid out flat back on the pillow and the anticipated guest rushes to his side, replacing the healer.
Felix can't stop his eyes from flickering closed as consciousness leaves him again. The final sensation is the rough caress of a palm against his cheek.
***
It's the first thing he remembers when he comes to again. Caress? Caress? If it wasn’t his imagination, he’ll cut Dimitri apart for fawning over him.
Again, the pain, the dampened senses, the slow-to-return vision.
His surroundings are dim. It must be evening or early morning.
There's someone at his side.
He turns his head. Not without discomfort. Just enough to see.
Dimitri.
He tries to say something but it just comes out as a dry crackle at the back of his throat. Oh goddess. Dimitri better not try to tend to him.
However, Dimitri does exactly that. The healer in attendance attempts to take back her duty, but Faerghus’ king is unmovable when he wants to be. Dimitri slides a supportive arm under Felix’s back and Felix tries to save himself some face by assisting, but he’s about as weak and limp as a Queen Loach out of water. Similarly ineffective are his complaints which come out as a bunch of unintelligible scratchy noises. A bit sullen, he accepts the cup of water Dimitri brings to his lips.
Despite the fog cast over his mind at the moment, he’s vaguely aware that Dimitri seems alright enough, what seems like the Blaiddyd crest a fuzzy current hovering closeby. It’s hard to focus; his head and torso throb and complain, his breathing still painful if he doesn’t moderate shallow inhales and exhales. If he can’t even hold a glass of water or breathe properly, Felix thinks, suddenly quite upset, how long indeed will it take him to hold a sword again?! He slurps and coughs down a few gulps, Dimitri’s tilt of the glass not quite in sync enough to prevent some water from splattering down Felix’s chin and beading on the white sheets. Felix feebly tries to slap Dimitri away, the struggling movement earning him a reminding flash of pain shooting from his midsection to his head.
“Ah, sorry -- !” Dimitri says, but not deterred in the slightest by Felix’s wriggling, he presses him back down as the healer fusses with some dressings. Felix decides not to resist, waiting for the pain to fade away as he stills.
“How bad is it,” Felix croaks, wincing upon the pain of exhalation. The healer’s doing something with the layers over his abdomen. He wants to push himself up to look but by now he knows the consequences, and he’s starting to tire out, senses swimming, so he looks to Dimitri for some kind of answer.
Dimitri remains wordless, his brow tight. His blonde hair is more unkempt than usual. Dimitri glances down towards the healer. Felix watches him grimace as the healer pulls back some cloths. Felix expects cold to his bare skin but feels nothing.
“I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” Felix says in response to Dimitri’s grimace, which lingers long and ugly. This doesn’t bode well. Felix can feel his breath starting to turn into gasps, fog settling over his mind, suffocating.
Yet again, he slips away.
***
Felix wakes up again. His senses gather themselves faster than last time. He feels warm and prickly. There’s no one in the room; it’s dim, certainly nighttime.
He’s quite thirsty. Could he get himself out of bed, maybe?
He tries, unwisely initiating the attempt with a rolling motion which immediately engulfs his torso in pain. He cries out unintentionally and stills, gasping. Alright, that was a bad idea.
If he can’t get out of bed maybe he can finally assess his own wound. More cautiously than a few moments previous, Felix tries pushing himself up to sit, but doesn’t make it far before the demand on his core is too painful.
He grunts in frustration as he lies back down. He really is badly off. How long has it been since he first woke up? By now, he’s recognized the room as one of those in the infirmary at Fhirdiad castle. His head swims, and he manages to push some of the sheets down, too hot.
There’s a knock at the door; Felix turns his head to stare, wondering who and what and why, not mustering an answer before it opens.
“What’s wrong with you,” Felix hisses weakly at Dimitri who hurries to his side. “You’re still recovering yourself, idiot. Have you been sitting outside the infirmary all night?
“No -- I did try to convince the infirmary staff to let me stay closer by, but they insisted it was not necessary,” Dimitri says, placing his lamp on the bedside table, casting a pool of warm light in the room.
“Then why are you here?!”
“I simply awoke and felt as though I should check on you.”
“Fool,” Felix scolds without much enthusiasm.
“Are you alright? Are you getting any sleep?”
“What does it look like? . . . Actually, I’m thirsty,” Felix relents, not exactly admitting that he can’t even get out of bed.
Dimitri hurries to the counter at the side of the room, pouring some water from a flask into a cup, then bringing it to Felix. Thankfully, Felix is able to hold the cup himself, though mustering the grip strength for the simple task should not be so difficult. He is still mostly supine and will inevitably spill water all over his face in this position.
“Hold on,” Dimitri says, retrieving a couple of additional pillows from a shelf, then lifting Felix up as gently as he can and placing those behind his head and back. Like this, Felix is able to drink, the first couple gulps reminding him how thirsty he is. He finishes the cup and barely has to say more before Dimitri has refilled it for him.
He feels satisfied after the second cup. As Dimitri motions to refill it again, Felix deters him with a shake of the head (ouch).
“Do you feel any better?” Dimitri asks, setting the cup down on the bedside table.
“Yes,” Felix says. The lamplight paints flickering shadows across Dimitri’s earnest expression, warm and bright. He pushes Felix’s hair back from his face; Felix tries to swat him away but the effort is ineffective. The back of Dimitri’s hand goes to Felix’s forehead, remaining there for a moment while Felix stares up at him. Dimitri’s brow scrunches. “You’re warm.”
“Better warm than freezing at the end of Harpstring Moon.”
“Ah,” Dimitri says, slightly tense, “actually, it has been warm . . . the fleeting snow has melted in the past weeks.”
“Weeks? What day is it today?” Felix finally has some capacity to consider what happened . . . clearly, Faerghus must have claimed the victory, but by how much margin . . . has Dimitri been crowned? Did Felix sleep through his coronation?
“19th Garland moon,” Dimitri answers, as if setting something breakable down very carefully.
Felix has been out for three weeks? He thinks of the effort it will take to get back into battle-ready condition. He looks at Dimitri and an unspoken acknowledgement of the time that has passed goes between them. Sothis. “When do we march again,” Felix asks.
“Moon’s end.” Dimitri sighs. “Though there is much to do at Fhirdiad, that seems impossible. But the Professor advises we should not tarry and lose our momentum.” Felix watches Dimitri’s expression as he is likely thinking about some endless list of tasks to do with west and east Faerghus and the coming conquest of Adrestia. He notices him sit a little straighter, as if squaring himself to command the march south itself. To see Dimitri carrying himself like this is so foreign and yet so fitting.
“You were crowned?” Felix prompts.
Dimitri seems to snap back into the moment. “Yes. Of course. The day after we took Fhirdiad. It was necessary, but it hardly felt right with the blood and destruction still hanging over the city from the day before. I could barely focus amid that aftermath, let alone the fact that you -- you were --”
Felix watches Dimitri’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, his throat working as he swallows. His hands are clenched, and then he exhales and spreads his hands open on his thighs. He’s dressed in simple nighttime wear, although his loose shirt is embroidered on the edges in intricate silver.
“But now that you are finally awake, talking, drinking something -- I find it easier to sleep at night.”
Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. He might be imagining a flush on Dimitri’s cheeks.
“Not to say that I sleep soundly,” Dimitri hurries, “but, ah, at least I am not quite as distracted by my own worries.”
Maybe Felix should do them both a favor and salvage the conversation. “Good, because I intend to have a sword in my hand as soon as I can get out of this bed.”
“I expected nothing else, but I will forbid you from going into battle at anything less than optimal health.”
“I’ll decide when I’m in optimal health then.”
Dimitri places a hand back on Felix’s forehead, frowning again. Felix makes another feeble effort to push him off and huffs in frustration when Dimitri will not be dissuaded. “Are you sure you’re not too warm, Felix? I think it is prudent to call a healer, should something be the matter.”
Felix sighs, exasperated, and winces, the sigh devolving into a cough that is extremely painful courtesy of his still-healing abdominal wound. When he’s done, his torso is throbbing again, headache back. “Probably need to sleep,” he manages as Dimitri fusses with his covers. “No no, too hot,” he complains as Dimitri tries to pull up the sheets he pushed down.
“Then you are too warm, Felix,” Dimitri says emphatically, leaving the sheets down. “I will find a healer.”
“It’s the middle of the night, let them sleep,” Felix says weakly. “And let me sleep.” He’s exhausted. This seems to be how his waking periods go -- he feels alright, then suddenly he doesn’t.
“As you wish, but I will stay until the healer comes.”
“You’re the king . . . you . . . “ Felix starts arguing, but before he can finish, he’s asleep again.
***
Felix wakes up to Dimitri folded over on his chair, his arms and head resting half on Felix’s bedding, half on his shoulder, snoozing peacefully. His crest is a comforting murmur. From the light coming through the curtains and the extinguished lamp, Felix is sure it must be morning, a few hours past dawn.
Felix’s arm is tingly, Dimitri’s sleeping mass cutting off circulation.
“Want me to lose my arm, do you,” Felix mutters. His heart seems to be beating a little harder and quicker than it should be at rest as he notices he can just feel Dimitri’s breathing through his cotton shirt, and he sees how Dimitri’s hair spills golden and messy in the early light. How to wake him? Something tells Felix bodily pushing him off will be a painful exercise so instead he gives his cheek a light slap. Dimitri makes a small noise and does not wake, so Felix repeats the slap. The same results follow. This is rather amusing and Felix starts laughing as he slaps Dimitri a little too enthusiastically. The king finally rouses and pushes himself up, looking startled as Felix is coughing on laughter, in pain but unable to stop.
An attendant knocks on the door in the middle of the ruckus. Felix finally calms down and lets the healer feel his temperature at the behest of Dimitri. She diagnoses Felix with a mild fever. Dimitri pesters the healer for a prognosis and he only seems slightly appeased upon her many exhortations to not worry too much at this point. Meanwhile Felix lies there quite exhausted from his outburst, wondering how long it has been since he’s laughed like that. It feels strange. Maybe he should do it more often.
Another visitor enters: Ingrid, summoning the King of Faerghus for a kingly matter. Dimitri and the pegasi captain make their exit, and soon after Ashe drops in, bringing with him a book. Felix almost scoffs at the book, but he has to be realistic and do something in the absence of training. Ashe is a good narrator and fills him in on some of the things that have gone on in the past few weeks while the healer summons sigils for Felix’s wound.
***
Felix has progressed to not exactly sitting up but reclining, and Mercedes is happy to see this when she comes in to attend to him. “I hear Dimitri has been keeping watch over you,” Mercedes says as she does something with fabrics and poultices at the counter in Felix’s infirmary room.
“As he should be his army and his kingdom,” Felix says sharply.
She gives him one of her sweet smiles as she approaches with a wrapped poultice in hand. “We’re all very thankful you survived that enchanted blow.”
Felix exhales forcefully - ouch. Breathing is still painful. “How long until I can get back to at least the training grounds?”
Mercedes pauses at his shoulder. “Felix. You were very badly hurt.” The strict tone is so rare to hear from Mercedes that Felix gulps and decides not to say anything for the remainder of her ministrations. The poultice stings as she applies it, then even more as she gently loosens a surge of white magic across his abdomen.
When she’s finally done, Felix is in a great deal of pain; she must know it by his face and the quick breaths he takes, presenting him with a cup of some disgusting concoction. Felix downs it, making a face at the aftertaste. Some things only get worse the more sugar you add in an effort to mask the flavor.
The concoction makes him feel floaty and far away from himself. He dozes off.
***
When Dimitri visits again, it is evening. Felix still has a mild fever. Dimitri catches Felix up on the past few war councils. They’ve discussed at length the next fort to take on the path to Adrestia -- Dimitri says the tentative decision is Merceus, and Felix, after some thought, approves. There was some talk as well of a celebration for Dimitri’s coronation, but with the end of Imperial supplies delivered to Fhirdiad, they are struggling to provide enough food for the people in the capital, let alone holding a celebration. It will have to wait until war’s end, or at least a few more months.
After that, they sit in silence for a little while. Felix has the feeling Dimitri is chewing on something he wants to say and is not saying it. To break the silence, Felix says, “I hate lying here.”
“Felix, you --” Dimitri blurts, “you nearly died. ” His tone is frayed and stressed.
“I know,” Felix says.
“You nearly died because -- for -- to save me, ” Dimitri says.
Felix turns his head to look at Dimitri, but his head is bowed. “ . . . I suppose,” Felix says. Why did he do it? The moment Dimitri’s crest dipped and fell, the moment he stepped in front of Dimitri’s exposed back, the moment he knew he was really going to get hurt and the only question was how bad -- it’s been circulating in his mind. It gives him strange chills to recall those few seconds. The rest of the battle for the capital is muddy compared to that singular moment, a lightning strike in the black of midnight.
“You suppose? Felix, you cannot go throwing your life away! Most certainly not for me,” Dimitri exhorts Felix, finally looking at him, his brow furrowed, his sincere expression making Felix feel a little bit uncomfortable and warmer than he already is.
“You can’t tell me what to do with my life,” Felix manages, sputtering.
“Felix, I can not lose you!” Dimitri continues, putting a hand on Felix’s shoulder emphatically. “Have I not lost enough already?” His crest floods Felix with a sharp nostalgia, a clear sense of order, a wounded self. It is entirely and honestly Dimitri as his voice breaks.
Felix opens his mouth, closes it. “You have,” is all he can manage in agreement. He watches Dimitri’s eye well with tears.
“I could not bear to lose you, too. I didn’t think -- I -- I didn’t think you would so quickly be willing to trade your life for mine --”
“I didn’t either,” Felix says.
Dimitri gives his head a little shake. “Why?” he asks, a lost man searching for a sign.
Felix looks at him. It feels like there’s a storm in his chest. His heart pounds. But the fragments of sentences running around in his head don’t make enough sense to say aloud. He frowns, frustrated he can’t come up with the answer. The simplest thing is what he felt in the moment. “I had to,” he says. Dimitri doesn’t look satisfied. Well, that makes two of them. “I’m tired,” Felix says with a short sigh. “I don’t understand either,” he tries to explain.
“I should let you rest,” Dimitri says, dipping his head. But he remains there as Felix gives into slumber.
***
“I know you don’t understand,” Dimitri says softly to his sleeping watch, close at his side, silent for long periods, breathing in tandem. He strokes Felix’s cheek, his hair, like he’s entranced. “I wonder if you will someday. I could show you, if you let me.”
***
Felix manages to stand the next day. His time passes in much the same limbo, though. His goal is to be able to attend the war council in three days.
Byleth visits and brings a stack of reason textbooks, with a faith one at the bottom of the pile. For once, Felix is appreciative. Here’s something useful he could develop while still resting. His fever is still mild; the healers think a few more days and he should feel better, and then of course there is only the mountainous recovery from his abdominal wound. They deliver this information a few times for Felix’s various visitors, including Dimitri, who finally visits in the evening.
Felix has been awaiting this all day for whatever reason, and he’s pretty sure that even though he folds his arms and greets Dimitri coolly his crest must betray his real gladness.
As usual, Dimitri takes his place at Felix’s bedside, producing a small package from the pocket of his long jacket with a flourish, presenting it to Felix.
“You look tired,” Felix says as he accepts the gift and unwraps it. It is a black tea bun. He sniffs it. These are rare in Faerghus, as the tea is a Sreng variety. “Where’d you get this?”
“The few Imperial supplies left over are quite luxurious,” Dimitri says, looking very pleased as Felix bites into the bun with relish. Inside is dried meat. It’s possibly the best thing Felix has tasted in the last few years.
Dimitri admits he is quite tired and tells him about the events of the day as Felix makes quick work of the bun. Then he inquires what Felix has been reading. Felix rolls his eyes and gestures to the textbooks on the other side of his bed, but Dimitri seems very happy to know that Felix is finally applying himself to studies.
They lapse into silence for some time. Felix has been thinking about their conversation last night on and off all day. He wonders if Dimitri has been doing the same.
“I’ve been thinking about how you said you don’t understand exactly why you did what you did for me,” Dimitri says in confirmation.
“So have I,” Felix says roughly.
“You still don’t know,” Dimitri says.
“No,” Felix says, turbulence returning to his chest.
There is a lurch of silence, and then: "Kiss me," Dimitri says.
Time seems to pause for a moment. Crystalline.
"Why," Felix says, but the storm in his chest goes totally quiet. He can only hear the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. He holds so, so still as Dimitri leans in.
"Don't you want to know," Dimitri murmurs.
He does want to know. He aches and hurts; his scars both old and new pull, wanting to be free.
Dimitri cups one side of his jawline in a hand. Felix feels him tremble. Sothis, what are they? Is this the life they have not yet lived?
Felix tilts his head, parts his lips and Dimitri's mouth closes in on his.
It is like the moment Felix stepped in front of the enemy spell, all over again, electrifying, certain.
Knowing.
If this is it -- and it has to be -- he's known for a long time, then.
They kiss until Felix is dizzy for breath and he pulls away for an inhale. Dimitri would let him be now, he's got enough respect for that, but Felix grabs the fur lapels of his coat and tugs them back together. He kisses him and kisses him, mouth open and wanting against Dimitri’s, warm and consuming.
***
Two nights later, an urgent letter for help arrives from Derdriu.
By now, Felix can only walk a few steps. He is infinitely furious he cannot go, but he knows his own state.
He makes Dimitri swear on the crest in his veins he won’t lose.
Dimitri gives Gilbert, a knight who served his father before he became a Knight of Seiros, the reins on the Kingdom while he’s gone -- but implores Felix to be remotely involved in the effort to stitch the Houses back together, for Felix knows more about the current relations between the noble houses than Gilbert. It is not a light role, but one that can be done from a desk, or a bed, if necessary.
Felix kisses Dimitri once again behind the closed infirmary doors before he goes.
***
While the Faerghan army marches east, Felix puts all his mental energy into getting better as well as helping to determine how to hold Faerghus together. All this business is extremely taxing: he must talk to Gilbert and think about Dimitri and read letters and think about Dimitri and write letters and think about Dimitri and talk with nobles and think about Dimitri and try to sleep and think about Dimitri . . .
***
Three weeks later, when a letter arrives back from Derdriu by bird, Felix is waiting in the Reception Hall, with Gilbert and other trustworthy knights and nobles.
A weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying lifts when the herald reads the message of victory.
***
The next letter follows shortly. Fort Merceus is the next stop on the warpath to Adrestia, as discussed before the Alliance’s cry for help. It will be roughly another month’s march for the Kingdom army back to Garreg Mach, where they’ll rest before going to Merceus.
Gilbert will remain at Fhirdiad.
Felix will ride to join the Kingdom army at the monastery. He can ride again now, though he’s been doing more wyvern work as it proves gentler than horseback. He’s unsure whether he will be fit for battle by the time they arrive at Merceus: he’s holding a sword alright, but wielding it is another feat. Forces him to put much more time into his reason and faith magic. It shouldn’t be surprising that it’s paying off. Perhaps he will become a flying mage instead of an earthbound swordsman. What an absurd thought. He would laugh at it, but laughing still hurts.
***
Trees continue to display their new greenery with the turn of the season, uncaring for the turmoil of war. Felix and a company of reinforcement troops ride south, Felix noting by the condition of villages and farmers’ fields which territories will need the most attention, once the war is won.
***
A few weeks pass. The Fhirdiad envoy finally arrives at the monastery, later in the day than anticipated. As the gatekeeper lets them in, Felix surmises quickly by the crowds at the marketplace that the main Faerghus forces are already here. He instructs the knight commander to register their arrival and arrange accommodations, then dismounts and hands the reins of his horse to the nearest squire. Though he is horribly sore throughout his legs and backside and abdomen from the journey, he strikes out in the direction of the classrooms.
***
The dormitories south of the classrooms are bustling with soldiers being assigned quarters, laundry and armor carried back and forth, supplies on horse drawn carts bidding for passage in the throngs of people. Felix makes his way through the crowd, feeling some glances from those around, but doesn’t slow. It must not have been long since the arrival of Dimitri and the Kingdom army.
All classrooms have been turned into infirmary spaces. Felix looks in. They are full of troops, but empty of Dimitri. Good. Felix, feeling a little steadier, keeps heading onwards to the training grounds. And there, as the crowd of people coming and going thins, stands Dimitri, in front of the training grounds doors, speaking with a monk. Sylvain and Ingrid stand to the side, conversing with a couple of their second-in-commands.
The King of Faerghus looks like he’s in need of a bath and his cloak in need of repair, but otherwise he appears to be in one piece.
Dimitri’s conversation with the monk finishes and he turns, meeting Felix’s gaze. Even at this distance, Felix senses the excited flash of his crest. Good, he’s alive and well. Something compels Felix to run the last few steps, his own condition be damned. And then he’s on the tips of his toes embracing Dimitri, before he can realize it, and Dimitri hugs him back. This closeness -- how did Felix last weeks without it? How did he last years without it?
Dimitri relaxes his hold so Felix can drop down on his heels again. “How have you been healing? Are you alright?” he asks, gripping one of Felix’s shoulders in concern.
“I rode all the way here, I’m fine,” Felix says, though still sore and in a decent bit of pain. It doesn’t matter. He’s where he wants to be. “And you. Back to full health,” he says, “survived without me.”
“Only just,” Dimitri says with a twitch of his lips. His hand goes to Felix’s chin, a tilt of a question. Felix swears he could hear him thinking about the kisses behind closed doors before Dimitri left to save the Alliance. His gaze is almost shy, as if asking still ?
Felix grabs the dirty tufts of Dimitri’s fur cloak, again on his tiptoes, leaning into him, lips on lips for the answer. Dimitri staggers back against the doors of the training grounds, unfortunately right as they open from the inside. Dimitri and Felix topple to the ground, the pair of pages who had opened the doors at just the wrong time giving their profuse apologies, Felix yelping in a twinge of pain as he braces himself above Dimitri. Those closeby draw in to observe the kerfuffle.
It seems Dimitri is content to lie on the stones for a moment, though: The King of Faerghus flat on his back and looking up into the face of the Fraldarius heir. Felix laughs, even though it hurts, and kisses him again.