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The cathedral is still in ruins.
At one time it housed divinity, or at least a facsimile of it, yet now its only occupants are the weary souls who drift among the wreckage in hushed tones and murmurs. Most of them avoid its grief-cloaked tenant as one would skirt a guard dog, casting wary looks to see if he’ll lunge at those who dare to approach.
Dedue sits in a pew closest to the heap of rubble at the cathedral's heart, where he plucks a needle through his embroidery hoop. He knows he’s far too close for His Highness’ liking, close enough to hear the litany of names Dimitri mutters under his breath while he kneels at a statue that once promised protection—an eerie prayer not meant for ears of flesh and blood.
But Dedue hears it and that Dimitri allows him to speaks volumes. Or is it that he’s simply forgotten Dedue is there? It would not be the first time.
Footsteps, quiet yet firm, interrupt his thought. This is all it takes for him to tense, his body attuned to all possible threats, and not a single muscle relaxes when he sees the man who approaches.
Felix takes a seat next to him, either oblivious to the tension or uncaring. He suspects the latter. They exchange no greetings; Dedue returns to his embroidery while Felix crosses his arms and stares at their king. Felix’s spot on the pew is stained with dried blood but apparently he doesn’t care about that, either.
Dimitri doesn’t acknowledge either of them.
“I thought you’d do anything the boar asked.” The pew groans as Felix settles into his seat. “And yet here you are, even after he’s told you to leave.”
Today’s pattern is a complex one. Dedue chose it because he knew it would take quite a few hours to complete, if he could even finish it in a day. No matter; he is a patient man.
“He’d care more if you were actually dead.”
It takes focus to keep his stitch lengths steady and even. “Perhaps.”
“Look, I’m not trying to insult you.” Felix’s tone softens. “It’s the truth.”
Even if he were, his efforts would be in vain—there’s not much this little man could do that stings worse than the way Dimitri refuses to look at him. He has endured far worse than such petty needling, worse than Dimitri’s ice-cold shoulder, and if Felix thinks this is all it takes to rile him, then that shows how little he knows.
But it’s not like he’s trying.
“Regardless, I will stay.”
“Why bother?” Felix gestures towards Dimitri. “Even if someone attacked, he could defend himself. He’d rip them to shreds.”
It’s time to change the color of his thread and so he reaches for a small pair of curved scissors. “Perhaps.”
“He’s too far gone. You’d be better off in the kitchen, in your precious greenhouse—”
“I have my reasons.” A sigh escapes through his nostrils. “Perhaps they are similar to your own.”
“Oh, so you’re a hopeless fool?” The crack in Felix’s voice, small as it is, makes him pause.
“...Perhaps.”
Either Felix runs out of barbs or he stops caring. As far as Dedue can tell he’s never been prone to apathy, despite his claims, and is probably drawing up the battle plan for his next verbal assault. While they all have different ways of wasting their time, as Felix likes to describe this particular vigil of theirs, it’d be nice if he found something more productive. Dedue has caught him watching over His Highness while he sharpens a blade—at times worries that he intends to put Dimitri down, but if Felix were that sort of man he’d have tried it long ago.
Still, even that would be preferable to their current stalemate or the grousing of Dedue’s empty stomach. It’s a shame Dimitri doesn’t brood in the dining hall.
For a while the only sounds between them are monotonous whispers, the thwip s of his needle against fabric, a wind that stirs dust and pebbles along the floor. He has learned to find this relaxing, though he wishes Dimitri wouldn’t spend so much time on his knees. It can’t be good for his joints.
“We came back because of you,” Felix says. “That promise we made five years ago—it was your idea.”
Dedue nearly pricks his thumb. “So it was.”
“You were the only one who didn’t make it.”
Despite how he’s tried to follow today’s pattern, the geometric leaves he intended to thread have swirled into aimless vines. He can’t recall when the change started, just that his hands go through the motions while his mind wanders elsewhere. It’s unlikely this will turn out well if he takes such a haphazard approach, but no matter. He’ll try again tomorrow.
“If we hadn’t come, if we’d left him like this…” The waver in Felix’s tone convinces Dedue to finally look up, though now his face is turned away. “Tch. Not like it’d have changed anything.”
“He would have gotten himself killed,” Dedue says, a subtle crack in his own voice.
Felix turns his gaze to the floor, the hole in the ceiling, the bloodstains next to him. “He’s still trying.”
The clink of metal against stone grabs their attention. Dimitri finally stands, though he keeps his back turned to them while he walks to a large chunk of rubble and sits, his fur cloak a mane hunched around his shoulders. He is miserable, he is filthy, but—most importantly—he is alive.
Dedue sets his embroidery hoop down. “You do not know him as well as you seem to think.”
“Oh?” That hint of vulnerability in Felix’s voice corrodes away. “And what makes you think you do?”
Hand at his sword belt, Felix stands. It’s not a threat, but something like it as he scoffs. Dedue, immovable as ever, merely removes the thread from his needle.
“I know that he needs to eat and he needs to sleep, and he will do neither if left unattended.”
Dimitri might not be trying to kill himself, but he’s certainly not trying to keep himself alive. This is nothing new.
“He spoke with me about something you said to him, once: that the man you knew died in Duscur.” The memory tugs at his heartstrings, not the words themselves but the way they were spoken, like a candle flame struggling against frigid winds.
Though Felix tries to hide it in a sneer, Dedue can see the pain etched into the bags under his eyes, the lines on his face, the distance he maintains from others—a familiar form of self-protection. Their eyes meet and he stares until Felix is forced to look away.
“You cannot know the thoughts of the dead,” Dedue says.
At this, Felix glances back to him and if he didn’t know any better he’d think his eyes were mistier than usual. Regardless of whether or not they are, Dedue grants him the courtesy of not acknowledging it.
“That’s—I was an idiot back then.” Felix runs his thumb along his sword’s hilt. “About him, about you.”
It’s not a compliment, but something like one.
They exchange no farewells as Felix stalks out of the cathedral, his steps now heavy and fast. Let him run from His Highness and whatever else it is he runs from; Dedue remains in his seat even if part of him wants to join Dimitri at his ruin. Truthfully a smaller, quieter part of him wants to follow Felix—how freeing it must be to spew all that bile, even if it burns on the way up—but he expels the impulse with a sigh and reaches for his embroidery again.
◆◆◆
A different, simpler pattern sits Dedue’s embroidery hoop when Felix returns. That he returns at all is cause enough to look up from his work, his eyes wide enough to betray his surprise.
“Hey.”
Felix balances two steaming bowls in his hands, though Dedue can't see what's in them from this angle until he sets them down over the pew's bloodstain. A simple dish by the looks of it, broccoli, carrots, meat—all overcooked—and stacked in precisely-cut chunks.
Felix crosses his arms and scowls. “You need to eat, too.”
Dedue looks to the second bowl. “And you?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Before he has a chance to thank him, Felix holds one hand up to silence him, or perhaps as a shield. All sorts of words stick in his throat like dust—grievances, yes, but he hasn’t forgotten that Felix has spent more sleepless nights in the cathedral than him at this point, even if Dimitri has them both outmatched by several years.
Instead, he nods. “My compliments to the chef.”
A smirk tugs at his lips as Felix slinks away a second time, the tips of his ears bright red.