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CHAPTER ONE:
On the Manner in Which One Should Extend Their Hand in Friendship to Other Nobles of Comparable Rank
“Come on, Your Highness. You owe me.”
Dimitri ogles Sylvain like he’s grown a second head. “I did not expect your favour to be something like this,” he replies, almost flustered.
Now it’s Sylvain’s turn to look incredulous. “What? Aren’t we childhood friends? By now, I’d have thought you knew better.”
Really, Dimitri had. Still, could anyone fault him for having had some faith? Faith that for once, just once , Sylvain would do something upstanding? Actually, he could think of at least two individuals who would gladly fault him for that. He shakes the thought off, sighing.
As much as Dimitri liked to think he should’ve known better, Sylvain entering his room begging for refuge had come as a shock. A girl, he had explained, on the warpath and liable to come looking for him in his own room. Therefore, Sylvain had continued, it made sense to stay with Dimitri. Not only was Dimitri unassuming and bland (which was hurtful, as Dimitri had explained, but Sylvain had brushed off the criticism), he was the strongest person at the Academy. (This had been punctuated by Sylvain flexing.) He could protect Sylvain from any rampaging maidens, fury matched only by those eternal flames.
The worst part is Dimitri is not really able to find a real refutation. He does owe Sylvain, and he doesn’t want his friend to be killed by a scorned lover. He can think of at least a dozen reasons Sylvain should own up to his mistakes, and yet each is beaten out by the simple fact that Dimitri doesn’t want to turn Sylvain away.
His soft heart would be the death of him.
“Fine,” Dimitri sighs. Sylvain perks up and Dimitri immediately gives him a sharp look, adding, “But only for a few days. I’m not happy about having to cover for your mistakes, Sylvain. In future, I’d like—”
“Right! Thank you, Your Highness,” Sylvain gushes, trapping Dimitri’s hand between his own and causing Dimitri’s brain to suddenly grind to a halt. “I’ll see you tonight, then!”
Before Dimitri can change his mind, Sylvain has let go of him to bolt out of the room. The door slams shut behind him, and Dimitri is left staring at the well-worn wood.
Sometimes he wonders why he talks to the fool at all.
CHAPTER TWO:
On the Manner in Which One Should Handle Diplomacy in Informal Settings
He’s in the process of silencing the ghosts that murmur in his ears, in the process of abandoning them for blissful nonexistence (or, more likely, nightmares that aren’t of the waking variety), when there’s a knock at the door.
At first Dimitri tenses. Is it one of his friends, here to fret over him? Or perhaps a teacher, here to critique his tendency to disappear into his own head the second silence fell? Or even Archbishop Rhea, or Seteth, or, hell, even Catherine, even Flayn, coming to confirm his fears?—confirm to him that when he inevitably dies young by the sword, he will not pass on to the heavens with the goddess, but rather will burn in the eternal flames? The ghosts chatter eagerly at the possibility. Dimitri forgets to even think to answer the door until Sylvain says, “Your Highness?”
“Ah, I,” Dimitri replies, not that Sylvain can hear through the door, and then he clears his throat. He could feign sleep. It’s late. Of course Sylvain came so late. Of course, even despite his supposed need to stay with Dimitri, he still went out philandering. Anger flares in Dimitri, but quickly subsides; what Sylvain does, and is, is so unimportant in that moment. He is Dimitri’s friend, and he needs help. Everything else came second.
In reality, outside his head, Sylvain is knocking on the door again. Dimitri calls, “Coming,” and rolls out of bed, stumbling to his feet.
Although he nearly trips over his blanket in that process, he does safely manage to get to the door and yank it open (too violently—he must be more careful—the royal coffers did not need to reimburse the church for even more repairs he necessitated).
Sylvain stands in the doorway, eyes wide as though he didn’t expect Dimitri to actually let him in. “Your Highness,” he repeats, stunned expression quickly melting into something more typical for him. In that moment, Dimitri notices that it seems almost detached from Sylvain, somehow. But this thought is not helpful or productive, so he shoves it aside.
"Come in," Dimitri sighs, stepping aside. Sylvain brushes past him to head to the bed, smile turning from almost defensive to deeply grateful. He starts undoing his boots, then tosses them aside carelessly. Dimitri tuts, and Sylvain looks up at him with some amusement.
“Go on. Say it already,” Sylvain teases, and Dimitri feels almost embarrassed over his predictability. At least until he reminds himself that he is not the reason for his own easily-mapped certainty. He closes the door behind himself, folding his arms over his chest.
“You need to treat your things better,” he reminds in a soft voice.
“Objects don’t have feelings,” Sylvain assures him, in a tone that would be mocking from anyone else, but comes across strangely earnest from Sylvain. Dimitri nods, brow furrowing as he senses the deeper meaning he cannot untangle—why does he always feel that he is trying to untangle Sylvain, trying to probe the deeper meanings his friend is denying him?—but before he can delve too deeply into the mystery, Sylvain adds, “Coming to bed?”
Dimitri nods. “You shouldn’t be going out if you’re in trouble,” he reminds. “And you’ve been better, but that still doesn’t mean—”
“Your Highness,” Sylvain sighs, “can this wait until the morning? I’m still going to be here.”
Sylvain shrugs off his blazer, then pulls off his socks, and those objects are cast aside as well. Dimitri doesn’t see where they land in the darkness, but he watches with some fascination regardless. He says nothing. He simply nods. He simply goes to the bed and pulls back the covers so Sylvain can crawl underneath them, and then he follows suit, pulling the blanket over the two of them.
The bed is cramped. It was not built for two. Perhaps its design was meant to discourage such sleepovers, or the things Sylvain does—the things Dimitri hears through the ancient stone walls, so much thinner than they appear—but it clearly hadn’t done its job. They are, despite their best efforts, pressed close, almost claustrophobic. The heat would be terrifying if it wasn’t coming from a human being. If it wasn’t coming from Sylvain. The ghosts murmur in his mind, about trust and hate and years of distance the two of them carefully cultivated, enough to know each other better than almost anyone else while still refusing to touch on the deeper things, the things that mattered. Did Sylvain have something to hide? The possibility is troubling. Dimitri fears for a moment that a dagger (or worse, a match) will materialise in Sylvain’s hand and it will all end right here.
But it doesn’t.
Sylvain faces away from him. He faces the wall. His back is like a barrier, preventing Dimitri from seeing his face or touching him without significant inconvenience. He is curled up, Dimitri realises as he shifts in place, legs pulled tight to his chest. It is a defensive position. For his part, Dimitri is laying on his side, stiff and unmoving, staring at the back of Sylvain’s head.
He feels that words should pass between them, but none do. Despite the way they are cramped together and all the things Dimitri could say, they are silent.
As always seems to happen, he doesn’t recall falling asleep. He is awake and then he is gone, and he wakes up at the first sign of the dawn’s light filtering through the window. Neither he nor Sylvain has moved a muscle. He wonders how much sleep the two of them got.
But this thought is neither helpful nor productive, so he shoves it aside. It’s time to get ready for class. Introspection could wait.
CHAPTER THREE:
Manners, Etiquette, and the Proliferation of Order in the Social Sphere
Sylvain returns the next night, earlier this time. Dimitri hasn’t even gotten around to turning out his lamps yet when the knock on the door comes. When Dimitri opens it, Sylvain leans against the doorframe with a stupid smirk on his face. This time he is in his pajamas instead of his rumpled uniform.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
Dimitri gives him an unamused look.
He straightens out, clearing his throat. “I mean, uh...Sorry if you’re not heading to bed yet. I just didn’t wanna risk waking you up.”
“Thank you for that,” Dimitri smiles, though Sylvain really had no reason to worry. The two of them had one thing in common—neither slept enough for their own good. He steps aside to let Sylvain in.
Sylvain doesn’t head straight to the bed tonight, instead wandering to the window. He puts his hands on the sill, palms facing outwards, and leans forward so his face nearly touches the glass. Dimitri watches with some fascination, waiting for an explanation. When it becomes clear one won’t come, he says,
“Stargazing, I take it?”
“A little,” is Sylvain’s cryptic reply. There is a pause that feels like a few eternities to Dimitri before Sylvain turns to glance at him. “You know, Faerghus doesn’t have much on this place, but our sky is a lot clearer.”
“I do miss it,” Dimitri agrees.
“And it’s so hot here,” Sylvain complains. “Would you mind if I slept naked?”
Dimitri’s brow knits together and he sets his jaw.
“Okay! Nevermind,” Sylvain says, rapidly turning to look back out the window.
“Let’s go to bed,” Dimitri suggests. If only to end this foolishness before it can begin.
Sylvain turns around and nods, hopping onto the bed and making the bedframe squeak. Dimitri casts him another disapproving glance, but this one only earns a light laugh from Sylvain. It’s a sound so genuine that it surprises Dimitri somehow. He’s fairly sure he hasn’t heard that kind of laughter since they were kids. It shouldn’t hurt him to hear, but somehow it only accentuates that yawning chasm in his chest where he’s pretty sure a well-functioning human used to be.
(The memories got hazy, though. Everything in life was hazy now, bound in smoke. Could a child truly be well-functioning by the standards he had set himself now?)
(The thoughts are not productive, nor helpful. He shoves them aside.)
They go to bed, Dimitri stiff as a board on his side, Sylvain curled up facing the wall. Dimitri is awake, and then he is asleep, and then the sun forces him out of slumber.
He is a meticulous man. He values routine and order. Even though it is only the second night of Sylvain staying in his room, he can feel new rules etching themselves into the mattress, pressing indents into his skin.
He never asked Sylvain how long he needed to stay. Dimitri decides, in the light of the morning sun, that he won’t.
CHAPTER FOUR:
The Importance of Regulating One’s Emotions Without Relying on Others
Dimitri does not ask Sylvain why he chooses to keep coming back. Sometimes Sylvain opts to go to his own room—this becomes more common after the first week—and Dimitri is once again forced to endure sounds he would rather not hear.
(Though he never really hears Sylvain make noises during these liaisons, which is strange, because Sylvain always makes it sound like he enjoys it after the fact, but the evidence for that is staggeringly short in supply. Or is it? Dimitri doesn’t know how these things work. He has never had a partner and he is too single-minded to go looking for one when he is sure he won’t live to see 25 anyway.)
But in the end, Sylvain always returns. Even when Dimitri scolds him, he laughs it off as usual, and they go to bed. Over time, Dimitri notices Sylvain’s posture relaxing, his body unfolding night by night. He does not comment on it, and neither does Sylvain. He wouldn’t even begin to know how to address what it was, what it might mean. Emotions and their expression were not his strong suit. He just knows that Sylvain returns to him every time, and when people are nearby, the ghosts in his head are less aggressive. At least for the most part.
This is their new routine. Dimitri is a meticulous man, so he always has a spare set of nightclothes for Sylvain to change into if he comes in late or forgets his own. Sylvain repays him by making the bed and brushing his hair in the mornings, teasing him for the way it sticks up at odd angles.
This is their new routine. Dimitri wonders if anyone notices. He wonders if there is anything to notice. He wonders if soon he will be hearing all about their sordid affair from Flayn.
He should put a stop to this, really. He doesn’t know what it is, and the change is, in all honesty, alarming.
He gives Sylvain an extra key to the room.
CHAPTER FIVE:
Discussing History in Social Settings, in Order to Demonstrate One’s Knowledge of the Subject
The first time nightmares come into play, Dimitri is surprised that they are not his own.
He wakes to hyperventilating, a body squirming next to him, limbs flailing and grasping at anything they can reach. Dimitri snaps awake, spirits screaming that he is being attacked, that finally the ones who enacted the tragedy have come to take their revenge, finally, finally, he’ll die in first the flames of mortals and then be purified by the unholy fires below.
But once he catches his breath he realises the voice mumbling its terror and the hands gripping so desperately at him are Sylvain’s. He sits up right away, his own breathing coming too fast, and shakes Sylvain awake on some kind of instinct.
When Sylvain’s eyes open they are wild in a way Dimitri knows intimately. Sylvain does not seem to really register where he is, eyes flicking around the room without actually taking anything in. It takes Dimitri shaking his shoulders again for Sylvain’s gaze to snap to the prince, finally seeming to realise that he isn’t alone.
Sylvain laughs, breathless. “Sorry. Sorry, I...I don’t know why I...”
Dimitri stays leaning over Sylvain, putting a hand to his cheek. “What happened?” he murmurs.
The silence must last for at least five minutes. Sylvain does not move in that time, eyes locked with Dimitri’s, half-lidded and extraordinarily tired. Dimitri wonders what his eyes look like, if they burn with hatred and passion or hold nothing at all. Sylvain has never seemed so distant. Dimitri wonders at Sylvain’s physicality as he holds his face; he wonders how Sylvain doesn’t simply unspool under his fingers and slip away through the cracks in the floors, the walls, the windows.
After an eternity, Sylvain nods. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER SIX:
Handling Difficult Situations Brought Unto You by Others, in a Manner Both Effective and Impersonal
Dimitri remembers the story, of course, but he does not remember it having had this effect on Sylvain back then. He cannot recall anything having made Sylvain upset, really, nothing that seemed to stick and hurt him like things stuck and hurt the rest of them. Perhaps Sylvain has always been a collection of other people’s secrets—Miklan’s, his parents’, his lovers’, even Dimitri’s once or twice—ever since he was too young to understand what that really meant.
The well, as Sylvain describes it, was dark and went far, far into the ground. Falling seemed to take an eternity, and then there was a cold so deep that to say it sank into your bones would not be giving it enough credit. It cut, Sylvain explains, through your clothes and fat and muscle right down into the marrow. Dimitri listens as Sylvain explains how he clawed at the walls until his nails broke, leaving them bloodied and dirty. He cried until his voice was hoarse. He was down there for hours before he was found. He isn’t sure how many, but the sun (which had recently risen when he was thrown by Miklan) had gone down by the time a retainer finally heard his screaming.
Sometimes, Sylvain explains, at night, the darkness feels like the well. The cold stone of the monastery becomes the wet brick of the well and the nip of night air can feel like freezing water to a panicked mind.
Dimitri wants to tell Sylvain about his dreams of fire, of the crushed bodies and screaming and his father’s last request.
He wants to marvel at how their memories are so different and yet lead to the same conclusion; where Dimitri dreams of heat and crushing bodies and people crowding him, hurting him, Sylvain dreams of solitude, abandonment, the cold rushing in to claim him. And yet neither of them can sleep. It is not a productive thought, nor a helpful one. Dimitri cannot let it go.
He holds Sylvain until the sun rises. He allows his body heat to fend off the cold of the past. Neither of them tries to rest, nor to speak beyond what has been said. This was enough.
CHAPTER SEVEN:
The Boundaries that Young Noble Men Must Respect, in Regard to Relationships With Each Other
Sylvain does not come back for a good week after that. Dimitri finds himself craving the presence that is no longer there, but he doesn’t say as much to the man himself. They go to class and things are normal, or as normal as they can be. But it isn’t their new routine, it is the old one, and Dimitri despises that reversal even more than he was made uncomfortable by the initial change.
And the longer Sylvain is gone, the more nights pass without him, the more the ghosts around Dimitri clamour about betrayal and hatred until he is unable to sleep because they keep going, betrayal and hatred and fire and vengeance and and and and—
They never shut up. The dead never shut up, they never left him be.
The more they talk the more he becomes convinced the reason no one hears them despite how loud they are is that he is among their number. He died that day in Duscur—he is nothing but a shambling corpse now, held together by only his determination. Someday someone will notice. Someday the smell will finally become noticeable, someday his eyes will lose their shine and look as clouded over and unfocused as they always feel. And then what will they do?—what will he do? They’ll put him down, surely, but can he even die? He’s sure his scars are opening, his guts spilling out. How does nobody see it? Dimitri sees it. He sees the blood and feels the pain and he knows it is real even if nobody else could see it.
He paces for who knows how long, then stops and stares at the wall for who knows how long. He’s aware of his lips moving, and perhaps he’s even talking, but who knew what he was saying?
And then he sees and hears the ghosts clamoring for his attention and he collapses onto his knees, falling forward and gripping at his head and now he does hear his voice and all it says is ‘stop’, over and over. It is agony. He can hear the fires and the screaming and everything is too close too loud too much. He swears he hears a drumming, two quick demanding beats, but it is overshadowed by the crying of the spirits around him. It is just more meaningless noise amongst the din created to torment him. If he cannot even handle ordinary crowds, how is he meant to handle this? Almost every night it comes and almost every night he is not ready. Will he even be able to take revenge, if he cannot handle his own mind? He tears at his hair, gasps and cries out. He claws at his own arms, tries to tear off the simulated flesh. That damned beat comes again, and he cries at it, animalistic.
He doesn’t hear the door open and close. He doesn’t notice anything until there is another pair of hands on him, more physical than the others clambering to drag him downwards, and he tries to swat them away.
It's Sylvain's cry of pain that snaps him back to reality.
He’s heard the sound before, of course, but it’s still bizarre to hear it in his own room, in this place that is supposed to be safe but never has been. His head snaps up and his eyes focus to see Sylvain cradling his wrist, cursing under his breath.
“Sylvain,” Dimitri breathes. “Oh, goddess. I’m so sorry, I—are you alright? Come on, let me—I’ll take you to the infirmary, I’ll...”
“I’m fine,” Sylvain wheezes, then laughs. There are tears in his eyes. “Yeah, don’t worry. Are you okay?”
“Am I—” Dimitri stares at Sylvain with wide eyes. “Sylvain, I hurt you, I—”
“Just a bruise. Are you okay? I heard yelling.”
Dimitri takes a shuddering breath in. “I’m...Why won’t you let me...”
“Let’s talk about you first,” Sylvain insists. He holds out his good hand to Dimitri to help him up.
Dimitri hesitates. Then he reaches up and clasps Sylvain’s hand (carefully, as though he’s handling porcelain) and pulls himself to his feet. Sylvain’s smile turns softer at that, more genuine. Dimitri wonders how often he sees that face; he finds himself trying to mimic it, though he’s sure it comes off stilted, jarring. He’s never been good at emotions or their expression.
“I, uh,” he begins, and he’s not even sure if Sylvain hears it, it’s so soft. He struggles to compose himself. “Sometimes I hear...the dead.”
Sylvain nods, looking like he’s taking it uncharacteristically seriously. Dimitri waits for the response telling him he’s insane, but it doesn’t come. When he’s sure Sylvain isn’t going to respond, he lets out a breath through his nose, slow.
“Aren’t you...You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong?”
Sylvain shrugs. “You’re not a liar, Your Highness. If you say you’re hearing the dead, then, shit, you probably are. I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts or anything. At least I don’t think I do. But I believe in you.”
“In me? Why?” Now tears are pricking at his eyes. He frantically wipes at them, sniffling.
“You’re my friend, Your Highness,” Sylvain smiles. He pulls Dimitri into a hug, even though it makes him suck in a quick breath through his teeth thanks to his hurt wrist. “I’m always gonna believe in you. I’ll follow you ‘til the end.”
Dimitri has not wept in at least four years, but he weeps then, held in Sylvain’s arms. They end up collapsing onto the bed at some point, falling asleep tangled up in each other.
‘Til the end, was it? Dimitri couldn’t help but doubt that, but he wants to believe it. That night, when the ghosts invade his dreams and he jolts awake, he finds himself able to fall back asleep after reassuring himself that Sylvain is still next to him.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
The Nobleman’s Obligations to His Subjects, and, Furthermore, to His Fellow Nobles
Sylvain had heard everything, every time Dimitri broke down. He confides that in the morning, as they’re getting ready for class. Some part of Dimitri resents his inaction, but most of him is eternally grateful for any intervention at all. His chest still flutters oddly when he thinks of Sylvain’s words the night before; he wonders if perhaps he has fallen ill.
But life staggers forward at its relentless pace, dragging everyone along with it. Dimitri has no time to contemplate his emotions, nor would he even know where to begin on his self-analysis. All he knows is that when Sylvain is around him, everything feels just a little bit lighter. That was enough of an excuse to want him to return, wasn’t it? He doesn’t need to know why it’s happening to know it’s happening, and he enjoys it. Sylvain is his friend, so it makes some sort of logical sense. He’s sure he’d feel this way for at least some of his other friends. (Felix comes to mind unbidden. He opts to ignore the thought.)
So, in the way he’s come to do with most things that nag at him that aren’t immediately important to his goals, he shoves it aside.
And Sylvain returns to him. His nightly disappearances and forays into town become less and less frequent, until almost every night Dimitri finds himself waiting to get ready for bed until Sylvain knocks. Perhaps it’s odd, but Sylvain’s habits haven’t changed otherwise that Dimitri can see—he’s just moved them up in his schedule, so to speak.
Dimitri will not argue it. At the very least, Sylvain is not staying out all night anymore. If that alone was not enough to appease Dimitri, he tells himself the fact that he has a better pulse on Sylvain’s shenanigans is important to maintaining friendly house relations. Goddess only knew how many times he and Ingrid had had to smooth things over with jilted ex-lovers from outside of the Blue Lions.
And, without any doubt, that is the only reason he’s as pleased as he is.
CHAPTER NINE:
On the Selection of a Proper Spouse, and the Importance of Not Straying Off the Established Path (in Marriage to a Commoner, or Other Such Transgressions)
There are nights when they do not speak, and there are nights where they stay up until the clock has struck at least two in the morning talking about nothing, or everything, or some intoxicating combination of the two. Their voices stay hushed to ensure that nobody can hear, can discover their indiscretion; it was, after all, against the rules of the Academy to share a bed with someone else. Even a fellow student.
Tonight is one of the nights where they do not speak at all. It is still early in the evening, and something about the silence leaves Dimitri wanting.
Sylvain lays next to him, facing him, giving Dimitri a half-lidded stare. Dimitri assumes he is simply exhausted. They’d had a hard day of training, after all. Ingrid had actually managed to drag Sylvain to practice, preventing him from sneaking out as he almost always did. Dimitri would have to thank her for that later.
But for now there is this unbearable gulf between them, a void. He wants to fill it. He has no idea how. His words are not enough and his feelings are a confusing mix that he has no desire to try and share, but there must be something. Perhaps the issue is loneliness has lived with him for nearly five heady years, his only companion on a pilgrimage to his own tomb. He has forgotten how to be Sylvain’s friend.
Or maybe that was paranoia. He takes a quick breath in, and Sylvain’s eyes light up, though his expression hardly changes otherwise.
“What’s that noise for?”
“Oh, I just—” Dimitri huffs through his nose, avoiding eye contact. “I suppose I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
Dimitri hesitates. But he is not an accomplished liar.
“You, I suppose.”
Sylvain tilts his head, and then a smile cracks his face. For once, Dimitri notes, it seems to reach his eyes. “Really? I assume nothing good.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“It’s always been the case before.”
Dimitri shakes his head, a slight motion that presses his cheek into the uncomfortable warmth of his pillow. (It is always so warm at the monastery. His mind wanders to Sylvain staring out the window, his palms pressed flat against the sill, staring at the stars. What had he been thinking about? Dimitri should’ve asked. He breathes out, quick and shaken.)
“No, it hasn’t,” he corrects, curling his fingers into the sheets. “I don’t think badly of you, Sylvain. I never have.”
The look Sylvain gives him can only be described as disbelieving. He nods regardless, after a few moments hesitation. “Then what you thinking of? My good looks?” he teases.
Now it is Dimitri’s turn to hesitate. His face is hot for reasons he could not begin to describe. He is bad with emotions and their expression, and he always has been. Perhaps thanks to that, the first thing out of his mouth is, “Maybe.”
It was a stupid thing to say. Dimitri’s face is a forest fire and Sylvain is pouring oil on it with the way his eyebrows raise ever so slightly, expression shifting from pleasant to interested , in that way Dimitri has seen with others, in that way he never would’ve been able to guess would turn on him.
“Maybe.” Sylvain shifts, and Dimitri clears his throat, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Nervous habit. Sylvain laughs at it, adding, “Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a—well, I don’t—I was just looking at you. Is it not natural to think about the person you’re looking at—their looks?” Dimitri tries to backtrack, now looking anywhere but Sylvain. “It’s just that we’ve been doing this for a while and I suppose—I don’t know, I just wondered—I had some thoughts about the—your habits—I don’t—”
Sylvain cuts him off with a hand to the shoulder, gripping him firmly and giving a little squeeze. Dimitri’s breath catches in his throat as his eyes snap back to Sylvain. His friend looks devious—or maybe not—maybe there’s something else behind his eyes that Dimitri had never caught before. He would not know how to describe it—something about his eyes calls to mind a flame, burning steady through the night—or not. He should leave the metaphorical language to someone more well-versed in pretty words. Someone like Sylvain.
"You have a problem," Sylvain suggests, voice low, almost coy. "I am the solution to that problem."
There is another tense moment, a pause where Dimitri can feel the heat creep up his neck to his ears.
"And what is my problem?" Dimitri asks. His mouth feels awfully dry. Perhaps it's their proximity, the heat he can feel from Sylvain under the blankets.
"Your problem," Sylvain replies, smile knowing, "is that you are too good, Your Highness."
Dimitri hesitates. “I don’t understand,” he replies, voice a little croaky. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure this is the first rule of the monastery you’ve ever broken. No sharing a bed.”
“Well, maybe, but—I don’t keep track —do you keep track? I—”
Sylvain interrupts him with a finger to his lips. Dimitri feels like every nerve ending crackles with the contact. He is suddenly acutely aware of the gulf in experience between them, and the thought makes his heart skip a beat, though he has no idea why . Sylvain likes women. Right? But then Sylvain had that look in his eyes, the one Dimitri had never expected to be turned on him. Sylvain drags his finger slowly down, down to Dimitri’s chin, making the impossible leap down to Dimitri’s shirt collar. Sylvain hooks his finger around it, tugging gently, stare half-lidded again.
“Too good,” he repeats. “Too good for your own good. You never let yourself relax. You don’t even sleep. And I would know.”
Dimitri swallows thickly. He reaches up, slow at first, and then jerky and awkward as he takes Sylvain’s wrist lightly in his hand. Sylvain does not pull away, which Dimitri considers a victory. He is terrified of fucking this up, whatever this is; his own monstrous strength has only ever betrayed.
“I don’t understand. This is just how I am.”
Sylvain scoots closer and the heat is so welcome for the first time in so many years. “Someone’s gotta rescue you from yourself,” he sighs, melodramatic. Dimitri’s blood rushes in his ears. “Guess it’s gotta be me.”
Dimitri is, despite his stubborn clinging to wakefulness, tired. He fails to process Sylvain’s approach until their lips are pressed together, and he makes a surprised little noise into the kiss. His grip on Sylvain’s wrist tightens, and Sylvain smiles into it, and Dimitri thinks he could get used to this. Sylvain shifts to straddle Dimitri, getting on top of him, kissing him hard, and Dimitri’s heart is soaring and his brain has all but shut off.
It is his first kiss. He did not ever expect his first kiss to be so passionate, so—so late. Did he wait this long because he knew it could never be anyone he hadn’t known, hadn’t grown up with, hadn’t had the time to learn inside and out? He feels so clumsy next to Sylvain, but there is something comforting in it, even with the acute knowledge that Sylvain knows better, is better, has done so much more. Sylvain would never let Dimitri fall. Even in something so far entrenched in the world of the emotional, Sylvain would never let Dimitri fall. He would always be there, burning steadily through the night—people thought he was a spitfire, but he wasn’t, he never had been. Sylvain was devotion, despite all evidence to the contrary. Or maybe only to Dimitri.
Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe all that mattered was Dimitri’s hands on Sylvain’s sides and the little noise Sylvain makes into the kiss, a sort of gaspy surprised sound (one that Dimitri would very much like to hear again). Maybe all that matters is that when Sylvain pulls away and looks down at Dimitri, Dimitri isn’t disappointed because he’s too overjoyed to be able to see Sylvain’s face again.
“You are a very good kisser,” he murmurs, curling his fingers in Sylvain’s shirt, and Sylvain laughs lazily.
“This is usually the part where we go all the way,” he confides, like it is some big secret. “I don’t want to do that with you, though.”
“No?” Dimitri tries not to let his anxiety show as he asks, “Why not?”
Sylvain has to mull that over, but only for a second. “Because I don’t want this to fade like everyone else does,” he says. He brushes some hair out of Dimitri’s face. “I want this to be something. I want...I guess I just want to keep sleeping in your room with you.”
Dimitri bites his cheek so hard he swears he tastes blood, though that’s hard to discern with his particular problems. He feels lightheaded, but he still has the wherewithal to ask, “And you’d be done with anyone else?”
Sylvain laughs, soft and genuine. “Your Highness. I haven’t actually been with someone in weeks. I guess I’m more of a hopeless romantic than I coulda guessed, huh?”
Dimitri laughs back, hoping it hides how he’s sure by now his whole damn body is red. It must be. Did Sylvain know how effortlessly charming he was? Even now, when Dimitri can tell his mask is off, he was the most alluring person Dimitri had ever met. “I’m glad it’s for me,” he says, and he leans up to kiss Sylvain again, tangling his fingers up in his hair.
He is not well versed in pretty words, but touch is a language he understands. When Sylvain smiles into the kiss once more, Dimitri cannot help but find himself smiling back.
He knew they would follow each other ‘til the end.