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Even though he’s tending to Dimitri’s wounds, Dedue removes his own armor first. It’s become something of a ritual, how they take care of each other. Dimitri is nearly impossible to keep calm in moments like this during periods of extended silence and comfort, and the one thing Dedue has discovered best tames that beast is the warmth of another’s skin. The more touch, the more skin, the more of another person besides himself, the better.
He would do anything necessary to help his highness; that this benefits himself as well is a mere coincidence. In the privacy of Dimitri’s chambers, he’ll take care of Dimitri once again, pouring out what affection and care he can muster. Dedue leans back against the headboard of the bed, pillows behind his back and a number of medicine jars spread out on the sheets.
Dimitri can’t even meet his eye as he silently removes his boots first, then his cloak, his armor, and lastly his undershirt. With each layer removed, he becomes smaller, lithe and thin. Despite his constant training and still very muscled physique, his silhouette will always be larger with his armor and medals.
Dedue receives him readily when Dimitri finally crawls onto the bed and plants himself on his lap. He knows that his king finds the buildup to these “sessions” somewhat embarrassing. He’s expressed it openly, sometimes even laughing at himself for requiring such “childish” care from his own best friend at this age. Dedue never indulges in his self deprecation and holds him closer instead.
Like now, as Dimitri leans closer until their chests are pressed together. He rests his chin over Dedue’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his broad back. Only once they’re finally touching, skin to skin, does that tension seem to melt away from Dimitri’s figure. Finally, with the obscurity of a miracle, Dimitri relaxes. Dedue reaches to the side for the first jar of salve, coating his hands liberally in it before they come up behind the other’s back.
He can feel Dimitri shiver at the first touch of the cold medicine. Despite everything he says and constantly reassures his medics, Dedue knows that those scars, though nearly a decade old, are still sensitive to this day. Their cold is colder, heat hotter, and pain more painful where he was once lashed protecting a particular youth from Duscur.
Dedue has each scar memorized by now, both from sight and touch, and he runs his palms over them carefully. He knows just how much pressure he can apply before it become over sensitive. As long as he pays attention to Dimitri’s hands on his back, his knees slotted around his hips, and the tension in his shoulders, he can easily tell how he’s feeling. Not that it will ever be easy.
Within minutes, the breath coming from Dimitri’s nose is just a little louder, a little more labored than usual. Dedue expects it as he reaches the deeper scars, those which pain him the most. In an attempt to keep Dimitri relaxed, Dedue takes a deep breath of his own, his chest rising with Dimitri pressed against him. His hands run slowly along Dimitri’s back, comforting and smooth, as he tries to ground his king back to earth with his own steadied breathing. Only when Dimitri’s breaths match his own is Dedue satisfied.
He presses a warm, chaste kiss in Dimitri’s shoulder. Immediately, Dimitri pulls his head back enough to return the kiss to Dedue’s neck albeit more fervently. He kisses the junction of his shoulder and neck, then his jaw, and returns his chin to where it hooks over Dedue’s shoulder so he can continue. If he is able to synchronize their breathing, then Dedue knows his highness can surely feel his heartbeat as well. He doesn’t try to obscure the way his pulse quickens at the affection and focuses instead on dipping his fingers into a fragrant oil to massage into his shoulders instead.
“Thank you… Dedue,” Dimitri whispers, hoarse and strained even now. It takes the strongest man in their army to be able to hold him down like this in his arms, forcing the man to relax and this is only as close as he can get. Dedue opens his eyes to look down over the canvas of pink and red lashes over Dimitri’s otherwise pale skin, tracing each one with his fingertips. He can never repay what was done for him, not even if he sacrificed his life ten times over.
He tightens his arms around Dimitri and leans back, signalling for Dimitri to pull away as well. The king keeps his arms looped around Dedue’s neck as he separates, though still keeping their chests pressed together. Like this, they can look at each other clearly, closer than they might be allowed anywhere but this room.
Dedue wants to call his name, like Dimitri did for him, but the word gets stuck in his throat. He almost feels like he should punish himself for the crime of wanting, and wanting so much that forbidden fruit that he should never aim to reach. His hands continue their path back up Dimitri’s back, spreading the oil atop the medicine with firm palms that have Dimitri arching his back into him. When his hands land on those strong, broad shoulders that carry the weight of the world, that animal inside of his highness appears unable to restrain himself any longer.
Dimitri lurches down in a guerilla attack to bite his mouth, and Dedue accepts him. His kisses always begin this rough, all teeth and snarls and heavy breathing. Much like the way Dedue must subdue him just to treat the scars on his back, he tries to calm Dimitri down with lips that put up no resistance to his harsh desires. He allows him to take, as much as he wants, forever if he wanted, until Dimitri’s mouth slows atop his. His breathing quiets, stuttering in a way that makes Dedue worry Dimitri might even cry when they’re finally able to move their lips together gently, soft and barely touching in a way he imagines they may have been able to five years ago if things had been different.