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Linhardt always knows, when he wakes, whether it’s going to be a good day. Or at least, a ‘Good Day’. He’s taken to borrowing the air quotes Caspar loves so much when it comes to describing the highs. Mostly because it means he has the energy to do them, and sometimes, it’s the little things.
A ‘Good Day’ begins with sleep, late enough that the morning rising over Garreg Mach is bright enough to creep in through the drapes, but not late enough that Edelgard is knocking on the door, demanding in shrill tones that he “better not be about to skip a lecture again!” It means he can wake up, swallow whatever potion or herbal tea Professor Manuela wants him to try this month, and dress in his own time. He replaces the burned-out candle from the night before, puts away the book he was reading before he fell asleep, and straightens the bedsheets, sometimes tucking them in if it feels like it’s worth it. He pulls the curtains aside and the day streams into the room, illuminating the dust motes, the sun warm on his hands. He dares to think, perhaps, that today will be fine.
There’s time for breakfast, even, sometimes, and he can walk there. The monastery grounds hold his many fellow students, clustered in pairs and groups talking, or walking alone to their duties and classes. Annette and Mercedes bid him quiet good mornings in unison as he passes, and he responds with a greeting and small smile in return. He meets Ashe under the arches, and they walk to the dining hall together, the grey-haired boy spinning a tale of Alois and the stable cats, and as Linhardt listens to his chatter and not-too-distant birdsong, he wishes all days would be like this.
Later, he is the last to their classroom for Professor Byleth’s lecture, but only by seconds, since Petra spots him from across the courtyard and sprints for the door - and of course, he understands why, because he’s late so often it would be an insult to the professor to walk in behind him. As it turns out, though, they both arrive before the professor himself. Linhardt slides with almost ease into his seat at the desk he shares with Caspar, and it’s as though the shorter boy’s whole demeanor lights up.
“Lin! You made it.” Caspar beams, and Linhardt’s chest blooms with warmth.
“Of course,” he replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. And really, it should be. Making it to class before the cathedral bells ring is supposed to be the easy part of academy training. Punctuality is a simple request, if he listens to what Seteth says.
Caspar only seems to grin wider. He scoots closer to Linhardt on their shared bench, and then Linhardt is being hugged. It surprises him every time, the affection that Caspar is so willing to give him. Others treat him like he’s made of spider-silk or blown glass, afraid to so much as bump into him in the hallways or land more than a tap during training. And of course, it’s sensible, for the most part. But it’s like Caspar can read him at a glance, and the embrace is the perfect amount of pressure, of warmth. So Linhardt allows himself to melt for just a moment, closing his eyes and finding the right way to return the gesture. For a few seconds, he forgets the dull ache behind his eyes, the heaviness in his limbs that even the short walk over from the dining hall has brought. All he knows in that short moment is Caspar.
“Your heart’s beating fast,” his friend whispers, shattering the spell.
“My heart is always beating fast,” Linhardt reminds him gently. It’s one of the first things to slip Caspar’s mind, if he’s going to forget anything.
He laughs a little as he pulls away, but stays sitting right by Linhardt’s side. It’s a good thing he takes notes with his right hand, while Linhardt uses his left. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to be.”
Professor Byleth chooses that moment to stride in, and what could become of their conversation is lost to the respectful silence that sweeps the room.
“Good morning, Black Eagle house.” A chorus of greetings in return. “We will begin today by recalling the sword blocking technique we studied last week. Ferdinand, if you would join me here…”
On a ‘Good Day’, Linhardt’s notes are neater than Caspar’s. His script is small, neat, slanted to the right in neat lines across his pages. On a ‘Good Day’, there are no ink spills or broken quills. There is simply the professor’s voice, and Caspar by his side, and when he’s asked to stand and demonstrate Recover on Edelgard as one of Bernadetta’s arrows goes awry, he’s more than happy to do so.
It stands to reason, of course, that after a streak of ‘Good Days’, and better days, and average-but-not-terrible days, the black clouds will come at their worst. And it’s just typical of Linhardt’s luck for it to all come tumbling down, just as he was beginning to hope he might feel better one day.
He first wakes to the bells chiming early morning - exactly what time, he can’t tell, because each toll sends what feels like earth-shattering pain through his head, radiating down his spine. It’s only because it’s early and the dormitory walls are thin that he finds it in him to grit his teeth, to hold back the cry that so desperately wants to tear out. He pulls the blanket over his head, but even the small movement is enough to bring hot tears to his eyes. It isn’t supposed to be like this, it’s incredibly rarely like this, but when it is, every time feels worse than the last.
He searches his mind for something to blame, to bury his head in the pillow and curse until his lungs give out. But there’s nothing there, nobody to spit at, because everything they’ve been doing, to try and help… it’s been working. Manuela’s latest syrup, infused with fresh herbs from Dedue’s small patch in the greenhouse, has had all but cured his headaches, pushed back the constant looming nausea to a level where he’s been eating three regular meals for weeks now. He’s been putting on a little healthy weight - putting on muscle , much to Professor Byleth’s delight, his hands hardly shake at all when he draws back the string on a training bow - and attending all his classes. He takes up weapons at the training ground and works to a programme devised just for him by the professors and Edelgard. A little more every day. Just three nights ago, he accepted Caspar’s offer of a duel after hours, and damn near knocked him across the classroom with his first successful Cutting Gale. He sleeps through the night, and only naps once a day, if at all.
He’s been getting better .
And yet, now, he’s powerless to do anything but lie motionless on his stomach, alone in his room. With the blanket pulled over his head, his feet and ankles are exposed and freezing. He’s always struggled to retain body heat, but the thought of moving to resolve the problem is too much. It’s all too much. So he shivers, and slips in and out of restless sleep, waking with tears drying on his cheeks more times than he cares to keep count of.
Daylight comes, and brings with it the soft sound of rain at the windows, because, well, of course it does. Linhardt’s father once hypothesised that his pain changed with the weather, and while experience has only served to prove that wrong time and time again, (he skates on the monastery pond with the others when mid-winter allows, and more than once has been bedridden as his friends frolic in the Blue Sea Moon sun - he missed Caspar’s sixteenth birthday, and is sure the regret will never leave him) it does seem that whenever the rain comes, so does the deep-set ache in his bones. He doesn’t see himself falling asleep again, at least not without a heavy dose of healing magic and another new potion or balm to try, and he knows that sooner or later, someone will come looking for him.
He doesn’t wait long. The thing about Edelgard is she seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to members of her house missing class. She must have a routine. Checking the infirmary, passing Bernadetta’s door to haul her, kicking and screaming, to the classroom, and then, coming by Linhardt’s room. Her sharp rapping at the door and the accompanying command of
“Linhardt! Up!”
is too much, too piercing, too painful.
“Edel… please…” His lips are cracked, throat sore just from the effort of forcing out the words she probably can’t even hear.
“I know you’re in there. Wake up!” When he doesn’t reply, she only goes on. “Come
on,
Lin! You’ve been so… spirited lately. So much better. I will not have you fall back to old habits. Open this door, before I open it myself.”
He knows she means it, and he doubts he’d be able to stand even if she gave him all day to do it, so he’s not surprised when the door flies open, hits the door with a thud, and reveals the princess in the light it lets in. She’s wet through from the rain, a sure sign that she’s made her way here without Hubert, as her advisor would insist upon carrying an umbrella for her. It wouldn’t do for a noble lady to catch a chill, of course. Something about that thought makes pained laughter spill from Linhardt’s mouth. How he wishes he could, one day, simply catch a cold and have that be the worst way his body could betray him.
Edelgard strides in, and for a moment Linhardt fears she’s going to snatch the blanket right off him and order him to his feet. But as she blinks, her eyes adjusting to the darkness in the room, he watches her face soften, in familiar concern, and then even more familiar, pity.
Normally, he would despise her pity. But in this state, he’ll take what he can get.
“Again?” she asks, the anger in her voice melted away, replaced by a whisper.
He closes his eyes against the disappointment in hers, and confirms, “Again.”
The Black Eagles all know of Linhardt’s affliction, though the Empire doctors don’t have a name for it. There was no way to keep it from the other students, either, though he suspects they think they know more than they do. He tried, of course, at first, to keep it hidden. Even lied to Caspar, whom he hadn’t seen in a year or more, and told him it was getting better, under control. Fainting at the steps up to the entrance hall within a week of enrolment had not been one of his finer moments, and had sparked a lot of questions and prying eyes. But by now, the students surround him with support, for the most part.
He knows he frustrates them at times, with his constant exhaustion, his inability to concentrate or remember the point of conversations or the passages of the books he pours over, again and again, desperate to retain the information through the fog in his mind and the tears in his eyes. Sometimes it’s hard to remember a lesson, or call back a moment in battle. And it angers him, let alone them.
But now, Edelgard perches at the edge of his bed, he can feel the slight dip in the mattress as she settles there. She’s hardly the most affectionate of his classmates, but still, he appreciates the warm touch of her fingers on his icy skin, as she draws back his tangled hair from his face and ties it loosely with the ribbon he lost at some point in his sleep. He whispers a thank you, but the words are lost once they pass his lips. “You’re welcome,” Edelgard tells him anyway. “Are you absolutely certain… no. No, disregard that. You are clearly too unwell to come to classes.” She sounds as though she regrets even going to ask. “I cannot stay. But I will fetch your medication, and send for Professor Manuela the moment she is available. And some extra blankets.” Her presence is suddenly lost, but only for a moment, and he can smell sweet-mint. Too exhausted to even consider sitting up, he allows Edelgard to pour a small dose of the syrup into his parted lips, and somehow, swallows it without choking. She rearranges the blanket to cover him properly, and in lieu of a cool rag to cover his eyes, finds a small towel and lays it there, to block out the light.
“Rest, Linhardt. Do what you do best.”
He hears the door close, and with the help of the medicine, manages to pass out again.
He guesses it’s mid-afternoon when he next wakes properly. He’s been roused a couple of times, first by Professor Manuela with some stronger medication and a couple of magical tests to make sure this is just another relapse, and not something that’s going to spread through the academy like the flu that did this time last year. When she’s sure it’s just him, she leaves, and the second time he wakes coherent, and she’s brought blankets from the infirmary, which he’s infinitely grateful for. He manages to thank her, and she gives him cool water to drink. When she tries to coax him into eating, though, he manages a few bites of something plain and unidentifiable before the dizziness overcomes him once more and he drifts off again.
He recognises the smooth heat of white magic before he even opens his eyes. He expects Manuela again, but instead finds Mercedes in a chair at his side, her brow knitted together in concentration as she casts healing spells over him. He watches her for a while, almost transfixed by the spirals of light bridging the space between them, until she notices he’s awake and closes her hands. “Linhardt.” She’s always so at ease, it puts his mind to rest too. “How are you feeling?”
He takes a moment to answer, first assessing the state he’s in, and then deciding whether it’s worth lying to her. “Quite dreadful,” is the reply he ends up giving, with a rueful smile. “Though better than this morning. Warm, at least.” It’s a little easier to speak, easier to breathe.
“Such is the way these things go, I suppose.” She stands up and picks her way over to his desk, bringing back a steaming teacup. “You absolutely must drink this. While another remedy is brewed, this will help.” The tea smells familiar, and Linhardt tries to focus on that instead of how much his body protests as Mercedes helps him sit up.
He insists on holding the cup on his own. Something about having a fellow student there, even if she is practically Manuela’s apprentice, brings a little shameful heat to his cheeks. “Angelica?” he asks, after a long moment inhaling the steam. “For nerve and joint pain.”
Mercedes practically claps, which he thinks is ridiculous, because he’s a healer too. What kind of a healer would he be if he didn’t know the uses of simple herbs?
He smiles anyway. “My favourite kind. Thank you, Mercie.” It’s slow, but he raises the cup in shaky hands and takes a sip. It’s perfectly warm, and brewed just right, and as he
drinks, he feels a little more human again. It clears some of the clouds in his mind, at least.
Mercedes sits with him until the cup is finished, and she talks about the weather - it’s still raining - and an incident in the courtyard involving Ferdinand and a cat exactly the colour of his hair. It makes Linhardt smile, her insistence on filling him in on the day he’s slept away. She tells him Ashe and Annette are making sweet buns for dinner, and she’ll be sure to have someone bring him a plate, since there’s no doubt in either of their minds that he will see this day out in his bed. And when his tea is finished, she takes his cup and goes to help him lie down once more, but he pushes her away, albeit gently. “Not yet. When I want to sleep again, I will call for someone, if you leave the door ajar.”
“If you’re quite sure, then of course. But I doubt that will be necessary. Your house have been quite desperate to see that you are recovering,” she tells him, still smiling. “Professor Manuela insists only one visitor. Perhaps two, if they’re quiet. But last I heard, Caspar was willing to spar someone for the honour, so…”
Despite everything, that idea is so undisputedly Caspar that it makes Linhardt laugh, for the first time all day. “Let him come. No, tell him I requested him, specifically. The others can wait.”
“Of course. I’ll pass the message along, I’m sure he’ll be with you shortly.” She beams. “Take your syrup before bed, as usual. The new blend should be brewed by morning, Professor Byleth has been working on it all afternoon. I hope you feel well again soon, Linhardt.” As promised, she leaves the door open just a little on her way out, and he’s left to wait for Caspar.
He listens to the rain on the window for a while, and hopes that every set of footsteps to pass his room will be his blue-haired friend. Just as he’s wondering whether he should have asked Mercedes to pick out a book for him, though he doubts he’d be able to focus his eyes enough to read more than a few lines, the air fills with the sound of running boots on wooden floorboards, and Caspar comes rushing in in a flurry of cold air and wet clothes, though thankfully without his armour and weapons, so at least Linhardt knows he hasn’t come straight from a training session.
“Lin!” Caspar’s excitement at seeing him takes over for a moment, and Linhardt winces at the sudden noise, enough to be visibly uncomfortable if Caspar’s reaction is anything to go by. The shorter boy presses his hand to his mouth and mumbles out a muffled “I’m sorry!” before getting his volume under control. “I’m sorry,” he says again, once he’s taken off his academy jacket and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall. He takes Mercedes’ vacated seat by the bed, and perches on the edge of it. “Hey… I missed you today.”
The easiest smile of the day makes its way onto Linhardt’s face. “Hey, Cas. I missed you too.”
They talk for a while like that. Caspar takes off his boots, and the warmth of the room dries his hair, leaving it fluffy. His hand creeps across the blankets, and when Linhardt notices it getting close to his own, he moves to close the gap, entwining their fingers. Caspar always worries about being too rough when he’s like this, yet Linhardt still hopes that before tonight ends, he’ll get to feel his friend’s arms around him. Caspar hasn’t hugged him on a bad day before, and he’s too proud to ask for it, even though he thinks, or perhaps hopes, that it might take some of the edge off, the same way it does on the days he makes it to class, or the library, or the pond.
“Come closer,” Linhardt hears himself say, later on when the candles have been lit and the exhaustion is setting in. He can see that Caspar is tired now too, and most likely uncomfortable, leaning in to talk in the dim light and still sitting on that awful chair that Linhardt hates because it makes his back kick up a fierce complaint any time he tries to work in it.
“I can’t move the chair any more, Lin,” Caspar points out, trying anyway. He drops it back to the floor with a thud, and Linhardt smacks his hand lightly.
“Ow. You can get on the bed, you know. Idiot.” It’s a fond insult, and accompanied by a tug at his wrist, there’s no doubt that he does, in fact, want Caspar there beside him, quite desperately.
Caspar frowns. “There’s not a lot of room. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“When have you ever hurt me before? You won’t. I trust you.”
“You trust me more than I trust myself, you know.”
“I know I do.” Linhardt pats the bed. “We’ll figure it out. Come on.”
Caspar looks as though he’s fighting an internal battle for a moment, but he sighs and relents, and moves from the chair to the space at his friend’s side. The pillows are all propped up, and he sits against them. He’s right, there isn’t much room for the two of them, but Caspar is short for his age and Linhardt, despite everyone’s best efforts, is thin for his height, so they’ll make it work. And Caspar is so warm, so familiar, that it’s all Linhardt can do not to collapse against him and, though he’s too proud to beg, beg to be comforted and held.
Because really, that’s what it all boils down to. To Linhardt, Caspar’s presence is safety, sanctuary. It means a hand to grasp onto when it all gets to be too much, an arm around his waist when he grows weak with fatigue, a voice in his ear that tells him it’ll all be alright, even if it doesn’t seem in the moment like it will be. Sharing the bed with him is awkward and painful, but if it means they can be this close, he won’t so much as whimper.
It’s a surprise when Caspar sighs, exasperation evident in his voice. “Lin, you’re hurting. Come here .”
And he’s resting on Caspar’s chest. His friend may be shorter than he is, but when they’re pressed up together, and muscle tension has Linhardt curled in on himself to be most comfortable, the difference is barely noticeable. He lets out a shaky breath, and cuddles closer, and to his delight, Caspar’s arms wrap around him and he cuddles back.
For a moment, the room is quiet.
“Better?” Caspar murmurs into his hair, so close and yet so soft it makes Linhardt jump.
“More than better. Nearly perfect,” he admits, not sure when he closed his eyes, yet making no effort to open them. If this is a dream laced with medicine and pain, he doesn’t want it to end just yet.
Caspar laughs quietly, and Linhardt feels the sound go right through him, flooding his veins with warmth and bliss. He decides he doesn’t ever want to move from Caspar’s embrace, right here in his bed. “Good. That’s good. You gonna be okay?”
Linhardt yawns. “Oh, absolutely. I promise.”
“You wanna go back to sleep?”
“It won’t help.”
“Does anything help?”
“You do.”
“Me? Sure you’re not feverish, Lin?” Caspar is laughing again, and Linhardt feels like his heart might swell right out of his chest. “I don’t know how I do. But you’ve always got me.”
“Don’t leave,” Linhardt hears himself murmur. “I’ll sleep, but don’t leave.”
He hears the smile in Caspar’s voice. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
And perhaps Linhardt imagines the kiss to his hair, as slumber pulls him in once more.