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i.
It’s one of those things. And by that, Claude means it’s nauseatingly, disgustingly awful, and he wants it out of his sight for the rest of his life.
That flash of blue must mean one thing- and sure enough, this is the third time this week. Claude’s caught Dimitri trailing after beloved Teach again, on his heels like some kind of desperate puppy.
It’s totally inappropriate, but that makes it funnier. The noble Prince of Faerghus, chasing his professor. Claude would laugh if it wasn’t so sad. Of course, his immense secondhand mortification is eclipsed by his desire to see how it pans out, so he lazily trails after them, a reasonable distance away.
Strolling, hands in his pockets, he dips behind a pillar as they stop. He peeks around the corner as Dimitri starts speaking.
“So, Professor,” he starts, voice boyish and laced with hope, “How did you like it?”
A short silence punctuates Claude’s burning curiosity. When Byleth finally replies, it’s in a completely blank tone. “It was nice.”
He has to stifle a snort. Peeking around the corner, Dimitri looks completely crestfallen -- to his credit, he bounces back pretty quick.
“Well- do you have any- tips for next time?”
It’s unlike him to be so flustered. Byleth cocks his head, and rearranges the books under his arm. “Maybe less frosting.”
“Ah!” Dimitri says, a revelation in his voice, “I should’ve known. You don’t seem like the sweets type, in all honesty.” He crosses his arms, bringing one up to cup his chin. “Would something savory be better?”
A sigh. “Dimitri, you don’t have to cook for me. The dining hall is perfectly adequate.”
Kicked-puppy is a strangely fitting look on him. “But-”
Byleth is able to cut him off with naught but a glance. Powerful.
It doesn’t stop him from continuing, though. “I simply… wish to express my gratitude,” he says, and if that isn’t one of the world’s greatest understatements Claude will eat his shoes.
“There’s really no need,” the professor replies, seemingly completely unaware of the shy redness filling his student’s cheeks. “It’s my job.”
Dimitri twiddles his fingers. “But I- I simply-” Ohhh, here it comes- “I care for you, Professor.”
Thoughtful silence sits between them. Byleth stares him down, and Claude can see the fidgeting nervousness jittering Dimitri’s legs. “I care for you as well, Dimitri.”
He replies so quickly he trips over the end of Byleth’s words. “Really?”
“Of course.”
Dimitri is completely floored. He might cry, judging by the look in his eyes.
“As I do all my students.”
Claude can’t help it -- he laughs.
Dimitri’s head whips around at the sound, but he’s already running away.
ii.
He’s lost track of the time when he notices them: a tall, hunched shadow thumbing through the records.
No one else is ever in the library at this time of night. It’s meant to be his own little reading cocoon, his nice private time where no one (Edelgard) can harass him. Or talk down to him (Hubert.) Or just be a general nuisance (Caspar, in spades.)
It’s unusual enough that it pulls him out of his book-haze. Leaning on the table, arms crossed, Linhardt peers into the corner of the room, craning his neck and squinting. It doesn’t help him see through the curtain of dark. He’s not sure why it would.
The figure shifts, and an elbow falls into the light, but it doesn’t magically reveal anything. Sighing, he pushes his chair out. They jump, and turn towards him.
“Prince Dimitri?” he says, voice gravelly from sleepiness. Said prince fidgets, and quickly shelves a book. Linhardt raises an eyebrow.
“Ah, Linhardt,” he replies, and Linhardt is a little surprised he remembers his name, honestly. “I didn’t notice you.”
He raises his other eyebrow. “Obviously not.”
He had intended to walk on over to Dimitri, but that was before he was identified. Flopping back into his chair, he sighs.
“So why are you here?”
It’s an innocent enough question, really. It doesn’t explain anything about why Dimitri’s eyes widen, why he starts fidgeting. “Just- some late night reading.” He laughs, awkwardly. “You know how it is.”
Can’t deny it. “I do,” he says, leaning his head on his palm again.
It’s obviously not the full story, but Linhardt turns back to his book, and that’s the end of that. They coexist in the space. Linhardt couldn’t care less about his presence, so long as he stays quiet.
It doesn’t take long for Dimitri to jitter out of his skin. Walking at far too brisk a pace for this time in the morning, he bows slightly to Linhardt as he passes his table. “Have a good night,” he says, cordially, to which Linhardt simply nods, giving him a lazy wave.
It’s hard not to notice the halting of footsteps, ears too-sharp in the dark of night.
“Dimitri,” says a voice, and oh, it’s the new professor. Linhardt doesn’t know much about him; he found his pillow, so he’s a good man in his books.
“Professor!” calls a slightly panicked voice. “What are you doing up so late?”
“I could ask the same of you.” A shuffle. “I was talking with my father.”
“Ah.”
Linhardt can feel Dimitri’s awkward tension. He leans back, blows a strand of hair out of his face. He’d really like to get back to reading, but the conversation echoes too much in those marble hallways.
“So?” Byleth prompts.
“Well- I couldn’t sleep,” Dimitri says, and it somehow doesn’t sound entirely honest, despite it staying consistent.
The professor hums.
All these silences are driving Linhardt crazy. He messes with the edge of a page, debating the merits of sticking his head into the hallway to make them uncomfortable enough to want to leave.
“Can I do anything?”
Despite this being a totally normal thing to say, Dimitri sounds like he’s swooning. “Oh, thank you Professor but I- I’m really okay.” His voice warms even more. “Just knowing you would offer is balm enough for my soul.”
Linhardt’s really hating this.
“Are you sure? I know some teas that may help.” Byleth’s voice is deadpan as ever, completely unreactive to the dripping succor.
“Teas don’t tend to soothe me, much.” A beat. “But if you were the one to prepare it, I’m sure nothing would be sweeter.”
Linhardt retches.
(Silently. He’s not a complete ass.)
iii.
Felix is tired of this shit.
The boar’s form is all wrong. He’d clearly volunteered in order to try and impress the Professor, but all he’s been doing is making a mockery of himself.
Felix snorts. It hardly takes any time at all for the Professor to disarm the boar, in a pathetic display.
What really gets Felix is how starstruck it looks. What should be a humiliating defeat brings only rapture to his eyes, and it’s absolutely disgusting. Mercedes’ giggle is completely justified, for once. Maybe someone else finally noticed how contemptible he is.
He allows himself to make use of the training facilities even while they have one-on-one practice. It boils his blood and burns his patience but he refuses to give up the space. Not to him. Never to him.
His traitorous eyes sometimes wander over to them, but only when they’re occupied. The Professor has to correct the boar’s form not once in a day, but twice, and both times he’s red as a beet. Felix leaves the grounds.
On another day, he and the Professor practise hand-to-hand, and they end up in a pretzel on the floor. The beast’s flush is not innocent. Felix yells a few choice words at him. Felix leaves the grounds.
On another, he ends up with the Professor on top of him, holding him into the dirt.
Felix swings his sword so hard it breaks the dummy, and then leaves the grounds.
iv.
“And then I said- halt, knave! But I, of course, dare not brandish my blade at a commoner. Er.”
Ferdinand is so simple. “Mmhmm.” She crosses her leg, holds her hand aloft. “You know, if you’re trying to impress me, you’re falling short of the mark. Points for trying, though.”
He groans, shaking his head into his hand. “What must I do to get on your good side, Dorothea?”
Ask the next urchin you scoff at, is what she might have said, were she a more honest person. Instead, she hums.
He starts babbling about something else, so Dorothea turns to people-watching. The monastery courtyards are beautiful, and nothing like the backdrops so lovingly decorated at the operas. The sway of the trees, the scent of iron and verdancy, the laughter of the students -- none of it felt real, to her, for the first few weeks.
Then again, nothing she’s been doing is exactly real, isn’t it? She’s on borrowed time and borrowed money. Borrowed clothes and borrowed favour.
She wonders if finding a wealthy partner will truly make her happy. Will it wipe away the musk of her past? Will it paint her in new colours, drape her in fabrics belonging to a new woman, reborn into comfort and joy and stability?
What else can she do?
“Dorothea?”
The bee’s speech finally reaches her. “Yes, Ferdie?”
“Are you… feeling alright?” Concern pools in his shallow eyes. She smiles at him, all sweetness.
“Of course,” she says, words laden on her tongue. Being genuine to any man would be a challenge, much less to one like Ferdinand. Much less Ferdinand himself.
Just as he opens his big mouth again, a figure catches her attention. From the corner of her eye, she spies Dimitri, head down and steps shuffled.
Her opening presents itself.
“Sorry Ferdie,” she says, not changing the fix of her gaze as she trots on over. Dimitri doesn’t notice her until she’s right next to him, and even then, he jumps a bit. A tired smile breaks across his face. Dorothea puts on her sweetest in response. “Prince Dimitri,” she says, curtseys a bit for effect.
He shakes his head. “No formalities necessary,” he says, contradicting himself immediately by falling into a respectful bow.
She keeps her smile in place. “What has you so down, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His eyebrows pinch immediately. She only feels a twinge of guilt for bringing it back to his handsome face. “Ah,” he says, immediately looking quite sheepish, lips curling with self-reproach. “I simply have a lot on my mind.”
Never one to waste a chance, Dorothea swings around beside him and hangs off his arm, which he reflexively lifts for her ease. Not an easy target, but a gentlemanly one. “Perhaps I can offer some advice? I hear I’m quite reliable,” she says, allowing a twinge of mischief to manifest in her eye.
The truth is, she’s genuinely curious. She’s only observed the princeling from afar, and from what she’s seen, he’s fairly unflappable; honourable, stalwart, and kind. Fairly similar to her Ferdie.
Said boy approaches them at a subdued clip, looking a bit like a kicked puppy. “Prince Dimitri,” he says, giving a nice respectful bow. “Well met!”
Dimitri’s smile seems strained at the edges. “And you as well, Ferdinand.”
Dorothea leans some more weight onto his arm in order to draw attention back to her. “Dimitri was just telling me about something,” she lies, staring imploringly at Ferdinand, who blinks.
Not taking the hint, he places a hand on his chest. “May I help with anything, Your Highness? As the future Prime Minister of Adrestia, it behooves me to pay heed to such matters.”
Couldn’t resist dropping it in there, could he? Never mind the fact that Dimitri is absolutely already aware of Ferdinand’s title.
Nobles.
“Well,” is all Dimitri says. His eyes dart around, desperate to locate an escape, his arm stiff in her grasp. He must really have a secret -- Dorothea’s twin desires to respect his space and inquire further war with each other. She doesn’t want to be rude, but it would be nice to know something about the Crown Prince himself.
“No pressure,” she adds, meaning it. He casts her a quick, kind look.
“Well, I…” He clears his throat. “It hardly seems appropriate to discuss. Excuse me.”
And he’s slipping out of her hold and walking right back where he came from.
“Hmm,” Ferdinand hums, hand on his chin, “I wonder what his secret is.”
“It’s none of our business.”
And it’s truly not, but something about his eyes strikes her.
Ferdinand looks at her, blankly, and then back towards Dimitri’s footsteps. “That is true. I cannot help but to be troubled, however.” He crosses his arms. “If peace is to prosper, I must ensure that the future ruling leader of Faerghus is in good health.”
“I think his health is fine,” she says, voice lilting. He’s not entirely wrong, but she’s hard-pressed to imagine Dimitri himself opening up to Ferdinand, of all people; no offense to his integrity, but she suspects Ferdinand is a difficult person to confide in. He’s awfully blunt, and can lack tact.
He speaks his mind. She can respect that. It’s part of what keeps her from full-on hatred of the man, her dislike instead manifesting in a smouldering burn that churns in her stomach -- a personal grudge, rather than an objective dislike.
He’s still a bee, though.
“Dorothea,” he repeats, a question in his voice. She turns to him, smiling sharply.
“Yes, Ferdie?”
Suddenly bashful, he drops his gaze to the ground. “Can I do anything to make you like me?”
His voice is so downtrodden, his face so broken, that she almost feels bad. Almost.
“Hmm.” She pretends to consider it. “I’ll think about it. For now, you can start by going along your merry way, so I can go along mine. I have some business to attend to.”
That saddened expression follows her as she follows the trail of Dimitri into the dining hall.
The opening is golden. He sits alone, for once, none of his fellow cubs circling him like they always do. He’s got a plate of salad in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to be eating it. His gaze is far away.
She slides in next to him. He jolts, again, turning to her quizzically, fork in hand.
“Is something wrong?” is all she says, injecting as much frank honesty into her voice as possible.
Dimitri reddens. Curious. He stares down at the unfortunate-looking salad resolutely, fighting some kind of internal war.
“It would be remiss for me to confide in you about this,” he says. “I do not know you all that well, and I mean no offense, but it is rather personal.”
Rosy cheeks, bashful heart. “Love troubles?”
His knee bangs the bottom of the table. Dorothea smiles, rests an elbow on the table.
Silence sits for a few moments as Dimitri collects himself. He swallows. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not really, I just have experience in these matters,” she reassures. If nothing else, she’s perceptive. It’s gratifying to be reminded.
Dimitri won’t look at her. He pushes around some veggies with a dejected vibe about him. “Experience, you say,” he says, voice low and defeated.
“Mmhmm.”
He seems to be weighing something of great importance. The tomato he’s repeatedly but gently spearing is bleeding out.
“Dorothea,” he says, something reserved but probing in his tone, and yes, she thinks, I’ve won, “Were I to confide something in you, would you keep it to yourself?”
Such trust he’s placing in her lap. He must be desperate. “Of course, Dimi.”
The nickname draws only a brief glance from him before he steels his gaze. “What do you do when… you- like someone?”
The emphasis on the ‘like’ is so boyish, so innocent, that she finds herself reevaluating Dimitri just a bit. “That’s awfully general,” she starts, but doesn’t allow him to interrupt just yet. “Do you want to get their attention? Have you already done so? What’s the situation?”
He balks under the questions. They were meant to be guiding queries, a gentle hand to push him, but they seem to have him overwhelmed. His face reddens so much like the victimized tomato. “I,” he says, and puts down the fork, “I don’t know. I don’t know if this is- infatuation, or love, or a foolish passing fancy. I just know it- it’s taking all my attention and focus and it’s dangerous.”
He looks surprised. So does she, she’d wager.
“Ah. I didn’t mean to ramble.” He looks distinctly uncomfortable, that tall frame shrinking in on itself as if it didn’t belong to the biggest lion in the monastery.
“You weren’t rambling. It’s good for me to hear some specifics, you know.” She puts her chin in her hand. “I want to help.”
A great relief passes over his face, settles in his eyes. “Thank you, Dorothea.”
And oh, how a lesser woman would swoon. But Dimitri is way out of her league, and very much consumed by love troubles. Not a good mix for her.
She hums. “Well, is it something you want to end?”
He startles, spooked like a deer in the light. “No,” he says, immediately, repeating it quietly a second time.
“Alright then. What is it you want, Dimi?”
The question has him flustered again. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head after a pause. “That’s not true. I do know, it’s just-” Dorothea watches a swallow travel down his throat, “Unbecoming.”
She cocks her head. This really is a juicy secret he’s spilling to a near-stranger. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Maybe it’s better that she’s a stranger -- maybe it’s the key, even, behind him shaking his head. “It is… an infatuation, I have. It’s for- someone very dear to me.”
She gets the feeling he just chickened out of telling her the whole truth, but nods in encouragement anyway.
“I find myself haunted by them, in the day and in the night. I cannot sleep without seeing their face in my mind’s eye. But I can’t bring myself to regret it.”
He reddens so quickly. It’s quite impressive, really. “Today, I- I heard them hum.” It’s innocuous enough, but with the way he covers his mouth with his hand, one might think he speaks of something uncouth.
“That bad, huh?”
He nods, once, curt. “I’ve been trying to make them- notice me. Nothing is working, and it’s inappropriate besides.”
Dorothea connects the dots; her eyes widen. “Byleth,” she whispers, as a question but with the intent of a statement of fact.
Dimitri buries his face in his hands.
“Well,” is all Dorothea can say. She can admit that she’s mildly dumbfounded by the fact that the Prince of Faerghus just admitted to her that he’s been trying to make moves on his professor.
“Well,” she tries again, “He’s the same age as us, at least?”
He groans, hunching over, almost letting his hair fall into his salad. Dorothea pushes the plate away and puts a hand on his back.
“I mean, I can’t say it would be entirely ethical for him to do anything back,” she points out, unable to help herself.
“I know,” he groans, a tortured man in the flesh. She grimaces, rubs his back. “I can’t help it. I can’t help but picture the future, and I-”
He drops his hands to the table. “I don’t want any other partner. I don’t want to be forced into a marriage. I don’t want to sire children, I don’t want to watch them grow without-”
Without him.
“Oof,” Dorothea says.
v.
Despite himself, it is hard to adjust.
Prince Dimitri is the center of his world. That much is obvious, both to him and to anyone humble enough to speak to him. He holds no illusions, and certainly doesn’t expect the same from His Highness.
No -- he is but a vassal. Even now, he is but a vassal.
Still, something twinges in the recesses of his hardened heart to watch His Highness orbit Byleth, to watch His Highness cling to Byleth, to watch His Highness rely on Byleth.
Going from personal confidante to retainer is a change he himself enforced. So he should not, cannot feel remorse. He extinguishes it before it can spark further.
His perspective changes five years later.
It is clear that he is not enough. He was not able to be there for his lord, was not able to be there for his most cherished friend. He spent so much time searching, and not enough time helping.
Their former professor is the only thing that kept his liege from madness. This much is obvious. He still shadows him, worships the ground he walks on.
Perhaps they are similar in that way: forever watching the feet of someone greater than them.
But Dimitri is in a unique situation.
“Your Highness,” he says, one night, outside the army’s quarters. His liege turns, eye melting into something soft, something he is selfishly proud to hoard.
“Yes, Dedue?”
He tilts his head. “May I be blunt?”
His Highness’ gaze shutters. “Of course, Dedue,” he says, voice turning subdued. Dedue feels a twinge of guilt.
“Why do you yet dance around Byleth?”
His eye flutters, darts around. “What do you mean?”
“Playing coy does not suit you, Your Highness.”
He sighs, the fight leaving his proud shoulders. A moment passes, heavy. “I don’t-”
Dimitri’s voice fades to a whisper. “I’m afraid, Dedue.”
“Of what,” he asks, in his kindest, softest tone.
His Highness blinks at the ground. “I could put this entire army into peril. Were I to introduce tensions in the relationship between our tactician and I, our army could directly suffer.”
Dedue reluctantly inclines his head. “That is true.”
“I need to remain steady. I fear what could happen were I to destabilize us.”
“Yes.”
“And,” he whispers, “I truly do not see any universe wherein it is requited.”
Dedue remains silent. So does the Prince. They sit in silence, in a rich yet tense atmosphere ripe with meaning.
Finally, he speaks. “Dedue?”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Stop calling me that. Please.”
Guilt wriggles against the bottom of his ribcage. “I apologize.”
“No, that’s-” a sigh. “That’s not what I want, either.” He shuffles closer, hair waving in the nighttime breeze. The army is past curfew, by now, but no one would ever call them on it.
When His Highness next speaks, his voice is very quiet. “Do you think I have a chance?”
If Dedue were more verbose, he would admit that he has been watching Byleth. He would admit that he sees life in his eyes when Dimitri is nearby, and that the dullness when he is not alarms Dedue. He would admit that he worries for Byleth, that he thinks, perhaps, the pair of them are flirting with something dangerous, something borne of wartime fear and desperation. But for his Prince, he knows it is far deeper than that, and he wants nothing more than to keep him safe from the dangers. His heart is already wrought from glass, from a tender stock so hardened by time, shattered over and over until it is at its most crystallized.
Dedue fears many things, but Dedue also knows the simple truth.
“Yes.”
His Highness’ eye is at its most brilliant, in that moment.
vi.
She’s pretty sure Mercie is crying.
“Mercie,” she says, indignant, “Nothing has even happened yet!”
Her sweet laugh brings flutters to her stomach, as always. “I know, Annie. We just… We watched them struggle through so much, and for them to finally get here…” She smiles, watery and broad and so beautiful. “I’m so happy.”
Annette grins, feeling a prickle in her cheeks. “It’s kinda crazy, isn’t it? Gosh, I still remember the way Dimitri chased after him. It was almost worse than watching Sylvain!”
“I take offense to that, I’ll have you know.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, yeah. You were the worst and we all know it.”
Sylvain smiles, unable to even pout theatrically. “Were? Past tense?”
Annette stares him down. “Uh, yeah.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you were planning to cheat on Felix?”
He hunches forward, finger extended in front of his mouth. “Shh! Not so loud!”
“Aww,” Mercie coos, patting Sylvain’s shoulder.
“Did I just hear Sylvain swear monogamy?” Ashe rounds the corner, smiling wide, wearing a nicely-cut blue suit.
Annette cuts Sylvain off. “Yeah, ever since Felix threatened to cut off his- his-”
Sylvain grins wolfishly, seeing his chance. “My dick?”
“Sylvain!” Annette glares at him, but his grin is fixed in place. He looks altogether too happy with himself. Mercie giggles.
“What! It’s not my fault you’re too-”
“Too what?”
“To be fair, it’s probably sacrilegious to say such a thing in a church,” Mercie adds.
Mercie always has her back. What a hero.
“Guys,” Ashe cuts in, “Not to, uh, interrupt too much -- but I think the ceremony is starting soon.”
Annette jolts out of her chair. “Oh!” She clasps her hands together, feeling her smile widen. She twirls around, facing her two friends. “Well then, let’s get a move on!”
Sylvain melts into something closer to a genuine smile, while Mercie-
Mercie has the face of the goddess. Or at least a saint. A major one.
She vaguely registers Sylvain and Ashe walking off, but all melts to the touch of their linked hands.
“You know, Mercie,” she starts, voice subdued, eyes fixed to the soft warmth that are hers, “I- I really love you.”
The way she smiles is life’s greatest joy by far. Her eyes sparkle, still nursing the remnants of unshed tears.
“Annette,” she starts, gravitas in her voice, “Once this is over, I have a question I should ask you. Soon.”
It was always her. Always. “Yes,” she answers.
They stand, hand in hand, until the royal orchestra starts playing. Jolting out of her trance, Annette moves beside her love, holding out her arm.
“Shall we go watch a royal wedding?”
A giggle. “Yes, dear.”
[bonus]
The morning is cold, but he is warm. It’s familiar, and yet not.
The weight in his arms is still a pleasant surprise. He thinks, perhaps, that it always will be, no matter the passage of time. He spent so much time wishing, dreaming for this -- and so much time lost, drifting, furious. Simple, unweathered joy is destabilizing in its purity.
Byleth stirs.
“My beloved,” Dimitri murmurs, nuzzling into his hair, breathing in his scent. Byleth’s arm reaches behind him blindly, elbow locked, and all he manages to accomplish is extending his arm backwards over Dimitri’s flank. Dimitri laughs.
He backs up so that his love -- his husband -- can turn towards him. His eyes are quiet, soft, and fierce, all at once.
Dimitri wonders if his look the same.
Byleth reaches out a hand, cups his face. Dimitri turns into it, that point of warmth eclipsing the world. He presses a kiss to his palm, eyes closed, and when he looks again, Byleth is smiling.
It’s a simple expression of joy that is still somewhat foreign to him. Dimitri still cannot believe he is the cause. He can feel the corners of his eyes lifting with the force of his returning smile.
“My beloved,” he repeats, unwilling to break the spell of the early morning. “I dreamt about this for so long.” He brings a hand up to touch the back of his husband’s, which lowers to allow to twine their fingers together. Dimitri stares at their clasped hands, his scarred, rough palm enveloped by a softer, colder one. He wonders, not for the first time, how he could possibly deserve this.
Byleth really is cold. Dimitri frowns. He shuffles closer, throws an arm around his bare back, smiles wide when a frigid arms encircles him as well. He gestures for Byleth to lift his head, and then slips his other arm underneath his head, and all is still.
Very still. Not for the first time, Dimitri wonders about his beloved’s heartbeat.
More important matters are at hand, however. Such as the contented, lazy look on Byleth’s face. Dimitri strokes his vibrant hair with reverence appropriate of the Goddess.
“I spent so long chasing after you,” he allows himself to murmur, eye growing fonder as his husband raises his gaze to meet his. “I was desperate.” A laugh rumbles his chest as he teases a short lock of mint. “I was certain my attempts being met with neutrality was a rejection.”
Byleth’s eyes clear. He furrows his brows, a question as plain as day.
Dimitri halts. “Did you. Was I not clear enough with my affections?”
Byleth frowns. “I never noticed.”
Dimitri frowns too. “Oh.”
They spend the rest of the morning dozing in each other's embrace. Dimitri counts his blessings that he was lucky enough to end up here, despite it all.