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Most nights, it was a struggle to get even the tiniest bit of sleep.
Dimitri tossed and turned, uncomfortable, sometimes too hot and then sometimes too cold. His shoulder hurt more often than not, and his wounded eye seemed to burn as if it were reliving the very same day he received the wound.
Most nights, he would sigh quietly into the air and simply watch his wife sleep.
Dimitri hated to rouse her, despised the thought of waking her when he knew how much rest she also needed—so, of course, Dimitri did not wake Byleth. Although she was insistent upon the fact he could feel free to wake her, Dimitri found that some nights, he was content with watching her.
Slumber may evade him, but he was thankful it had not denied her.
Tonight, Byleth slept on her back, hair a ratted mess against the pillows and Dimitri finds comfort in the fact she will shuffle toward him in the morning, brush in hand and a small pout on her bottom lip as if he would ever deny her, even without the pout. It’s… adorable, Dimitri thinks, lifting a hand to brush the fringe away from her face. Byleth’s mouth is open a bit, a soft snore escaping, some drool sliding down to her cheek.
Dimitri has to fight the laughter that wants to spill. He guides his hand to her cheek, wiping at the drool, his expression fond as he watches her eyebrows narrow in her sleep. Dimitri wills his fingers not to shake as he glides his fingertips against her skin, feather-like. Her brow to the bridge of her nose, over to her temple and downward, curving along the softness of her jaw, to her chin and then the curve of her neck.
Emotion erupts in his chest suddenly. It hits him like a meteor spell to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs and all Dimitri can do is lie there on his side, his palm against the warmth of her skin, his good eye wide.
He cannot help but think: she is here.
(Of course she is—Byleth had never left his side, had always been so insistent upon being there, next to him. She had always been warm beside him, almost like the sun.)
She is alive.
(She would never die so easily—after all, hadn’t she come back after five years, through it all? Byleth may be scarred and tattered just the same as Dimitri, but that did not mean he would not brush his lips against the smooth, gloss-like scars. Although his palm does not rest against a pulse, she does breathe, and that is ultimately enough for him.)
She is… my beloved.
The thought is enough quell the emotion in him, softening his edges and making him want to melt into the bed alongside Byleth. Dimitri shuffles closer, his hand sliding down to her arm, and then her waist—and it is too much, the mere feel of her, so he retracts his hand, patting between the sheets softly to find her hand.
Once he finds it, he threads their fingers together and gives a small squeeze.
Dimitri is unsure of when he finally falls asleep, but when he does, it is to the sounds of her soft breathing.
***
Most mornings, it was a battle to even get out of bed.
Byleth had slept like the dead, and feels (not so terribly, most days) bad upon knowing that her husband did not. For her, it was easy to sleep through it all and in it all—a gash in her leg as she lay on a makeshift bed of leaves and moss? No problem. A piece of an arrow head embedded in her side as she lay on the hard, scratchy surface of a worn, abandoned porch? Just give her a pile of leaves for a pillow and she’d be good.
As she lolls her head to the side, greeted by Dimitri’s soft-with-sleep features, she feels… content, even though she knew, by how pale his face was, and how dark the circles were under his eyes, that he has not been asleep long.
With a sigh, Byleth quietly rolls out of bed, tip-toeing to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, opting to slip a robe over her nightclothes instead of readying herself for the day. She gives the brush on the vanity a blank look, and decides to walk away from it, because she knew how much Dimitri enjoyed the simple task of brushing her hair.
She could do a number of things—paperwork, signing documents that are due in about two days time, writing that report, and yet… Byleth finds herself climbing back into bed, back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, simply to watch her husband sleep.
Dimitri looks much like he had, years ago, when all his guards where down.
Carefully, Byleth lifts a hand, slipping her fingers between soft, golden locks of hair. She brushes back his hair, revealing his forehead. The urge to swoop down and plant a kiss there is dangerous, and Byleth surprises herself when she does not act on it. Instead, she lightly traces her fingertips along his features—down the bridge of his nose, across to his right cheekbone, down to his jaw and along the sharp curve of it, to the very tip of his chin.
She remembers, vividly, the time he had spent as a student.
Sometimes, she wishes their lives were that simple again—and yet, she has to wonder whether or not they would be together, like they were right now, in this huge bedchambers, in this bed that could fit a handful of people, if what had happened years ago had not happened at all.
Byleth thinks, for a moment, they would not. A part of her is distraught with a peculiar sadness.
When her husband begins to stir, Byleth quickly retracts her hand, her heart dropping to the fiery pits of Hell because she had not meant to disturb his slumber, but she knew Dimitri would not think of it quite like that.
“Good morning,” she murmurs.
“Ah…” Dimitri clears his throat, his good eye blinking up at her while the other remains closed and scarred. Byleth watches as he knits his brows together, a private smile on her face because she was sure that he was probably a bit confused. “Good morning, beloved.”
Byleth sighs, once more threading her fingers through his hair. “Did you sleep well?”
“So…so,” Dimitri admits, but he smiles up at her nonetheless, and it unravels the anxiety she feels in her heart, causing it to dissipate. “Should we ready ourselves for today?”
“I don’t really want to,” she says, too blunt for her own good, but it makes Dimitri laugh, and that is what matters. “Would you like to brush my hair?”
Dimitri hums as he rolls out of bed. “It would be a pleasure, your Grace.”
“Oh, just Byleth is fine,” she tells him, and when he sees the teasing smile on her face, he reaches toward her and messes her hair up further.