Work Text:
The enemy was supposed to be ugly.
In all of the stories that Emmeryn told Chrom growing up, the villain was hideous. Their smiles were meant to be sinister and their expressions befitting of nightmares. They were the shell of human, if human at all—but otherwise writhing demons with snarling teeth and pits for eyes.
The enemy wasn’t supposed to have his face.
Robin’s face. Robin’s rich, dark skin. Robin’s amber eyes. Robin’s quiet, teasing voice. And especially not that easy but attractive smile just barely unfurling from a good-natured smirk.
Nothing of that lilting intonation screamed villain. Nothing of that animated expression. That petite body perfect for staring up at the stars and pressing close at night.
But the thing staring at him through Robin’s eyes was not Robin.
“Grima,” Chrom said.
Battered and bruised, Chrom’s wrists hung limp in manacles that shackled him to a tree. His arms were pulled taut, and his body sunk to its knees onto charred grass. Chrom’s breath was shallow. His head pounded. He wanted to feel something—anything—but through battle and loss he’d been scraped hollow.
Around him, the field still smoldered. Combat churned grass into mud. Blood and smoke ran thick in the air and over tangles of fallen soldiers. Silence pressed heavy.
Grima stopped a few feet short. He ground his heel into the remains of a flower. “Did I say you could speak.”
Chrom choked out a desperate laugh. “If anything of Robin remains in you, then you’ll know I was never one for tact.”
Grima tilted his head. “Nothing of Robin remains.” He took a step closer. “Robin is gone. This body is mine.”
Chrom did not speak.
“So now you have no words left,” Grima said.
Chrom’s stare bored into the ground.
Grima tilted Chrom’s chin up with one finger. A sneer curled one corner of his mouth.
Robin always did have a crooked smile.
“So,” Grima continued. He spoke as if sampling every word. “The question remains. What do I do with the Exalt, fallen from glory.”
Chrom’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Do you always play with your food?”
Grima chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself! You’d taste awful.” He patted Chrom’s cheek.
Froze.
Then flinched back, as if he’d been burned.
Grima pressed his hand to his own chest. “I don’t understand.”
Chrom’s brows furrowed. “What’s wrong,” he said, “cat got your tongue?”
Grima shook his head. He loomed closer, peering into Chrom’s eyes. “This vessel is defective.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say about yourself,” Chrom said. “It was working just fine when Robin owned it.” He bit back a wry laugh, opening and closing his fists to fight the numbness creeping up his arms.
Grima licked his lips and tried to clear his throat. When that didn’t work, he backhanded Chrom. The sound rang out over deafening silence.
A red mark seeped across the grime on Chrom’s cheek.
He hardly felt anything at all.
Grima retreated again. Paced around the tree. “My heart is hammering. This is wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. My legs don’t feel right. What’s going on with my stomach?”
Chrom opened his mouth and closed it again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he studied Grima.
“Gods,” Chrom finally said.
“Gods what,” Grima snarled, whirling around to snatch at the front of Chrom’s shirt.
“Something of Robin remains after all,” Chrom said, more to himself than Grima. The first bit of hurt weaseled its way in through the cracks of exhaustion.
“What do you mean by that—“
Chrom wanted to taunt him—to pour every suffocating piece of hurt into some scathing remark—but his voice came out dull. Resigned. “Your vessel was in love with me.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Robin. Robin was in love with me.”
“That’s impossible,” Grima said. “I ought to kill you and end this foolishness.” He ripped a dagger from its sheath and pressed it into Chrom’s neck. He grit his teeth as if willing himself to slash it and end it.
Grima’s hand trembled. The blade did not move.
Chrom shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
Grima hesitated. After an eternity, he let his own knees thud into the grass in front of Chrom. The dagger fell from his fingers.
“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Chrom repeated. He blinked past a wave of dizziness.
“Kiss me,” Grima said.
Chrom’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “What.”
“I said kiss me.”
Chrom grit his teeth. “And just what is that going to do?”
“I’m the one in charge here,” Grima snarled. “And you don’t get to ask questions.”
A prickle of irritation moved through Chrom. “Then take the kiss,” Chrom bit back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Grima eased closer, hands drawing up to either of Chrom’s cheeks. His fingers pressed into the corners of his jaw. Slowly, carefully, he tilted his head and parted his lips, finding Chrom’s. He lingered there. His breath quickened.
Chrom froze. He felt the warmth of Robin’s breath—smelled him beneath the layer of sweat and grime. Felt the stolen intimacy that they’d rehearsed hundreds of times.
Something in Chrom snapped. He pressed himself forward and intercepted those stagnant lips, pressing kisses onto Grima’s mouth with an energy born of desperation. Grima responded with a jolt, his own moving in tandom, with teeth and tongue and desire and longing. A whine escaped Grima’s throat.
Chrom wanted to forget that this wasn’t Robin, but Grima’s tongue moved wrong and his hands didn’t scratch at the nape of his neck. He did not respond to Chrom’s prompting. There were no teasing remarks. No elated laughter. This was a dance that Grima did not know. The one thing he could not steal from Robin.
If all the tales that Emmeryn told Chrom of love and love’s kiss were true, that would have been enough to drag Robin to the surface. It would be Robin pulling away and not Grima.
But the man who stared Chrom down as he drew back was as cold as ever. Grima took a moment to collect his breath and stood, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He still trembled.
Chrom could hardly breathe for the weight in his chest. If he was raw inside before, those wounds had been scraped with salt.
“Give him back,” he wanted to say, but his voice was gone.
He watched Grima turn and walk away, leaving him shackled in the middle of that ruined field.