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Caspar is 21 years old when he realizes he’s in love with his best friend.
That isn’t to say that he’s 21 years old when he falls in love with his best friend, of course. Because the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes, he’s really always been in love with his best friend, since before he even knew what love really was. He’s been in love with the annoyed sighing when healing scraped knees, the drool on his shoulder when he’s being used as a pillow, and the stale smell of old library books, since before ‘love’ meant anything else to him other than the thing he said to his mother every day.
Caspar’s been in love with his best friend, he thinks, since back when seeing his father kiss his mother still made him stick out his tongue and say ‘gross!’, since he used to skim over the love stories in his story books while looking for the cool stories about knights and dragons and fighting, since he used to completely tune out every single time the word ‘marriage’ came up.
It’s probably an exaggeration, but Caspar is pretty sure he’s been in love with Linhardt since he was 6 years old.
And he knows for sure that Linhardt will make fun of him if he ever says that out loud.
It’s really inconvenient, realizing you’ve been in love with someone your entire life when you’re in the middle of a war.
Caspar isn’t quite sure when it happened, when it finally dawned on him. All he knows is that one day everything was normal, and then the next? The next he couldn’t look at Linhardt without thinking about how nice his hair looked all grown out, couldn’t think about him without remembering that time he crawled into his bed when they were 13 so he could comfort him during the worst thunderstorm Caspar had ever seen and then the next day made him a charm to ward off lightning strikes even though he always got annoyed having to tell Caspar all the time that training to become a knight was much more likely to get him killed than being hit by lightning.
Couldn’t eat, sleep, or even train without Linhardt crossing his mind.
He does know that it still took him way too long to figure it out, but considering he’d never had to think about this sort of thing before in his entire life (even though it’s sort of always been there, hanging around in the back of his mind), he thinks he should cut himself some slack for that.
In fact, it took Hubert pulling him aside one day to make him stop and really think about it, which is something that’s gonna embarrass him forever and which he’s definitely not ever going to mention to Lin.
“Whatever is distracting you needs to be dealt with,” the second-in-command of the Black Eagles (and weirdly enough, their self-appointed mother hen, if the way he constantly seems to be running around checking on everyone with only the totally see-through excuse of keeping the Black Eagle Strike Force in top condition for Edelgard’s sake is anything to go by) says to him one day after he’s nearly managed to get his knees taken out by a swing from Ferdinand’s training lance because he got distracted in the middle of a spar, thinking about how he saw Linhardt on his way to the training grounds, sitting under a tree with a book, and how he had that little crease between his eyebrows that he always got when he was focusing really hard on something and how cute he looked like that—
And that was the moment he realized he had it bad , standing there thinking about Linhardt reading a book instead of paying attention to the lecture Hubert was giving him about not getting himself killed on the battlefield because he had his head in the clouds.
And it scares him.
It’s not like he’s a shy person. And it’s not like he thinks Linhardt would think badly of him because of something like a crush.
It’s that it’s not a crush, it’s so much more than that, and Caspar doesn’t even know how to deal with it, nevermind how to tell Linhardt about it. How do you look your best friend in the eye and say, ‘Hey, thanks for keeping me and everyone else alive, and by the way I’ve been in love with you since we were little kids’?
At the same time, he can’t just… Keep doing this. Because even though it really shouldn’t change anything, this knowing , it does .
How he feels about Linhardt hasn’t changed, not really. Although he spends more time thinking about things like ‘wow, his lips look really soft’ and less time talking about what good friends they are and how much he values their friendship, as if that was ever really fooling anyone.
(The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure he’s actually the last person to figure it out. A lot of Dorothea’s teasing about Linhardt made a lot more sense now, as did the little sympathetic looks Bernadetta always gave him— all his dumb oblivious pining probably reminded her of a character from one of her books. He feels stupid about it now, of course. Like they were all just waiting for him to catch on and he’s only just now managed it, about five years behind everyone else.)
What has changed is how he thinks about Linhardt. Namely, all the time. Of course, Linhardt has always been on his mind a lot; he’d be training and think to himself, hey, I haven’t seen Linhardt all day, I should track him down and make sure he isn’t drooling all over a library book somewhere; or he’d realize Linhardt wasn’t in the dining hall at dinner time and go to track him down to make sure he ate, since it would be just like him to get way too into his research and forget that food even existed .
Now though, he’s— well, he’s still always thinking about those things, but he’s also thinking about the fact that he would really like to run his fingers through Linhardt’s hair, or see if his lips really are as soft as they look, or Sothis forbid, hold his hand , as if he hasn’t done that a thousand times before and it’s only weird now because he knows he loves him .
And he’s thinking about these things when he should be doing things like sleeping, paying attention to where he’s walking, and not getting himself killed in the middle of battle.
Hubert’s little lecture is really just the beginning. When Ferdinand has to rush in and keep him from getting impaled on an enemy lance, he asks him what’s wrong; when Dorothea sees how he’s not eating nearly as much as he used to, she teases him by saying she has no idea how he grew so much if he won’t eat his vegetables, and then reassures him he can tell her anything.
All the thinking, it’s driving him crazy , and it’s probably going to get him hurt or worse. And Caspar has always been a man of action, never really hesitating to jump into anything, but this time?
Well, for starters, it means a lot of talking, and Caspar’s never been good with that.
It also means that he has to face the very real possibility that he might get shot down.
Caspar’s never been rejected before, but he’s pretty sure that if it were anyone else, he would be upset but he could handle it. And by now he’s pretty well assured that Linhardt wouldn’t just drop him or get mad or whatever because he’s in love with him, but…
But he’s not sure he could handle Linhardt not returning his feelings. No matter how gently he broke it to him or how sure he is they would still be friends afterwards. Obviously he knows Linhardt can feel however he wants to feel, he doesn’t owe him anything, but?
But.
So he stays quiet an wallows in it and tries not to think so much, and hopes that maybe he can make it out of the war alive before he’s forced to deal with this, and maybe halfway across Fodlan to boot.
The problem with this plan is that Caspar forgets that he actually has to see Linhardt every single day.
It’s easy at first; Linhardt doesn’t really like to hang around everyone else, and he’s never at the training grounds, which is where Caspar spends most of his time taking out his frustration on training dummies who won’t accidentally break one of his bones if he gets distracted while beating them up. (He’s pretty sure he nearly traumatized Ferdinand that time he narrowly avoided having his kneecaps taken out.)
The thing is, though, Linhardt likes having time alone to do his research and sleep and do whatever else he did that Caspar didn’t quite get but knew was important, but Caspar has always made a point of checking in on him to make sure he’s eaten something recently and hasn’t fallen asleep somewhere that’s going to get him in trouble, and to hang around him if he doesn’t mind the company just because— well, because he likes spending time with Linhardt.
Linhardt is way too smart, way too observant, not to notice Casphardt going out of his way to avoid him. Because he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to avoid bringing up the subject if he actually had to sit and talk with Linhardt for long enough. It’s hard enough to not blurt it out every time he casually passes him in the hall or sees him at a war meeting or sits across from him in the dining hall; it’s been building up for 15 years and it’s hard to keep something like that bottled up, after all!
Even though it really shouldn’t surprise him, though, it still does when one day he comes back to his room and Linhardt is lying in his bed (looking like he belongs there, probably even more than Caspar, honestly), focused on the book he’s reading and barely even bothering to glance over at him as he walks in.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Linhardt doesn’t even look away from his book when he says it, even though Caspar feels a horrible chill go up his spine and expects to look over to see Linhardt glaring at him. Instead he’s just casually turning the page. Caspar would have thought he’d misheard him if Linhardt didn’t glance at him out of the corner of his eye and say, “Well?”
“S-sorry, Lin.” Caspar laughs and rubs the back of his head, giving Linhardt his sheepish grin and hoping he won’t see it for the nervous look that it is. Of course, the way Linhardt is looking at him makes him feel like he isn’t fooled for a second; he usually isn’t, unless he chooses to be because he doesn’t want to get involved. “Thing’s have been busy lately. We’re at war and all. Gotta keep myself on my toes.”
“Really? Because from what our comrades have been saying, you haven’t been doing a very good job of that.”
He winces. Of course someone would tell Linhardt. They’re best friends, everyone is worried about him, and he’s pretty sure at least one person (his bet is Dorothea) has figured out the entire thing, and everyone else has some kind of educated guess.
He hasn’t really been subtle about it, after all. Caspar has never been the kind of guy to be subtle about anything , nevermind the thing he can’t stop thinking about .
“Y-yeah, I guess I’ve been… Kind of distracted.”
“So everyone’s told me.”
Caspar winces again when Linhardt slips a ribbon into his book and sets it aside. He tries not to watch as he stretches, arching his back, because he knows it’s creepy, but he can’t help himself from at least watching from the corner of his eye as he slips off his breastplate.
When he looks back at him, fully, Linhardt is sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s slouching and his eyes are half closed like he’s half asleep, but that’s nothing new for Linnie, and even though everyone else gets annoyed with how sleepy he is (and Caspar himself has gotten annoyed about it a few times), it feels familiar and comforting and it makes him smile.
Which is how he knows he’s really screwed.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt if you’re distracted on the battlefield.”
“Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me.” Caspar sighs. It’s true. Everyone’s been telling him the same thing, each in their own ways. But it hits especially close to home coming from Linhardt, knowing why he’s distracted. And even though it doesn’t show in his face or voice, he can tell Linhardt is especially worried. Mostly because Linhardt is in his room to have this conversation with him, which is a lot more effort than he normally puts in to something like this.
Because Linhardt is their healer. Because he and Caspar have been best friends since they were 6. That’s why. And maybe because his teammates are nosier than he expected.
“It’s fine, Lin. I’m working on it. I’m not gonna make your work any harder for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He laughs at his own joke, not because he thinks he’s being especially funny, but because he thinks it helps make it obvious that it is a joke, and hide his nerves at the same time.
Again, the look Linhardt gives him tells him it’s not working.
“That’s kind of you,” Linhardt says flatly, no sign that he found him funny at all, which has never really hurt his feelings but he can’t even pretend right now to lighten the mood, he’s too busy thinking a dozen different thoughts at once. “But honestly, I’m more concerned about the you getting hurt part than the idea of having more work to do.”
Caspar’s heart skips a couple of beats, which he curses himself for, because it’s not like Linhardt hasn’t told him the same thing a thousand times before. They’re friends . They care about each other, it’s totally normal for him to care about him getting hurt, and hearing him say it now shouldn’t feel weird just because he’s figured out that he feels more for Linhardt than just friendship and has all along .
But it does. Maybe it’s because Linhardt doesn’t know , and also probably because they haven’t actually talked in what feels like forever (but has really only been like a week)...
“I know it’s because of me.”
Aaaand there’s that cold feeling again, only instead of going up his spine, it settles right in the pit of his stomach and makes him feel like he’s gonna be sick.
It’s probably because of the look Linhardt is giving him, a sort of pitying frown that also makes him look even more tired than he usually does, like just having this conversation is making him exhausted. The fact that he ended that sentence with a little sigh definitely isn’t helping either. But whether it’s one or both of those or something else entirely, it makes Caspar incredibly nervous.
Linhardt is observant. If he’s figured it out and this is the way he’s reacting, Caspar definitely doesn’t feel good about it… In fact, it’s pretty much exactly what he was afraid of…
“You… Do?” Of course, maybe he’s just blowing things out of proportion. Getting ahead of himself. And, honestly, if this is going to go badly? Maybe it’s better to rip the bandage off quickly, get it out of the way while he has something more important to distract him— it’s hard to think about a broken heart while you’re at war…
Or he assumes, anyway. He’s never had a broken heart, because he’s never felt like this about anyone else. So maybe he shouldn’t get ahead of himself.
“It’s not difficult to figure out, Caspar.”
Linhardt sighs again. He pats the bed next to him like he wants him to come over and sit down next to him, but Caspar’s full of nervous energy and doesn’t really feel like sitting down, so he stays awkwardly standing and shifting from foot to foot. He’s still in most of his armour, too, which isn’t exactly the most comfortable, but while the breast plate is one thing it feels weird to take the rest of it off while they’re talking…
“I’ve hardly seen you, except at dinner and the war table,” Linhardt says, folding his hands in his lap when he gives up on signalling Caspar to sit next to him. “And even then, you’ve hardly said two words to me, and you won’t meet my eyes.”
The more he talks, the more he realizes he’s screwed up. First of all, because he’s not been even a little bit subtle. He didn’t think he was being that obvious, but when Linhardt puts it like that…
Second of all, he realizes how unfair it’s been to Linhardt, especially when Linhardt follows up with,
“If I’ve done something wrong, it would be much more productive to just tell me.”
Maybe he hasn’t been quite as obvious as he thinks. Or maybe Linhardt is just as inexperienced with this kind of thing as him. Whatever it is, he sees the way Linhardt’s expression changes— just slightly, he’s never had a super expressive face, but he’s frowning and there’s a look in his eye that Caspar just hates .
“No way, Lin!” he says immediately, and this time he does go to sit next to Linhardt, if only so he can look him right in the eye when he says, “I’d never ignore you because I was mad at you. That would be pretty rotten of me. And I’m not mad at you.”
“But you have been ignoring me.”
That one, Caspar can’t really deny, so he goes back to awkwardly rubbing the back of his head and avoiding eye contact. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he sees Linhardt frown some more, and he winces.
He’s been doing that a lot so far. And this is exactly why he wanted to avoid this, even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so forever.
“I… Y-yeah. Sorry, Linhardt. I won’t do that anymore.”
It’s a hard promise to make, knowing that it’s going to make not getting distracted even harder, but it’s upsetting Linhardt and it’s not exactly making Caspar happy either, so it’s for the best. He’ll figure out some way to deal with this. Some way that doesn’t involve just doing the obvious— coming out and telling Linhardt.
Funny how of all things, this is what makes him finally decide it’s a good idea to keep his mouth shut. Hubert would probably laugh at him if he found out. He’s probably laughing at him right now , if he’s not complaining about him—
“Why were you in the first place?”
Linhardt asks him so easily that for a second, Caspar almost just… Says it out loud.
I’m in love with you, I just figured it out, and now I can’t stop thinking about you and it’s really messing with me .
It would be so easy, when he thinks about it like that. To just. Put it out there. Like ripping off a bandage, like he just thought a few minutes ago.
If Linhardt is going to reject him, well. Maybe it really is for the best for him to get it done with now. Then he can try and just. Move on, and not have to worry about getting himself stabbed on top of everything else…
But that fear grips his throat tight. It’s easier to say nothing. To think, well, maybe he won’t get rejected. Maybe he can just deal with it all later, leave it as a problem for future Caspar to worry about, because consequences have never really been the sort of thing he’s good at dealing with.
Linhardt is staring at him. He gets that cute crease between his eyebrows, the deep thinking one, but there’s also concern in his eyes. Caspar realizes he’s just been sitting there in silence ever since Linhardt asked him that.
“I… I was…”
His brain is caught between the two possibilities; between just telling him, getting it out there, or shoving it down even further. And he’s stuck. His brain keeps bouncing back and forth between the two options, and can’t settle anywhere, and it’s actually getting hard to breathe?
A hand comes down between his shoulderblades to rub his back, and Linhardt is saying something, but he’s so caught up in his own thoughts that it takes him a second to realize what it is…
“You don’t have to tell me,” Linhardt says. “Not if it’s this upsetting. But Caspar…”
There are a lot of things they don’t talk about. Things that they know they can’t do anything about, or that they just don’t have the time to think about or the tools to deal with at the moment, not when they’re in the middle of a war. A lot of things that made Caspar feel… Well, a little inferior for not being able to help his best friend. For being too weak, for not being smart enough or…
How could he ever think he would be worthy of Linhardt feeling the same way about him when he can’t even manage to look him in the eye or do anything to help him, when he can’t even manage to be a good friend , nevermind something more ?
DId he ever even think that was a possibility? Or did he always know it was a doomed effort, and that’s why he went so far out of his way to avoid Linhardt and this entire conversation?
“Caspar.”
Linhardt’s hand isn’t on his back anymore; it’s found its way to the back of his neck, long thin fingers gently massaging the muscles that are so tensed up there that he can feel them twitching under Linhardt’s talented fingers.
Normally he would be happy for a Linhardt massage, especially because he doesn’t get them all that often; Caspar’s muscles get worked into tense wires from all the training, and it takes a lot of wheedling for him to get Linhardt to put in the necessary effort to work out all of the knots. Right now his head is swimming too much for him to really be able to appreciate it.
“Caspar, breathe. It’s alright.”
He’s not sure Linhardt’s voice in his ear or his hands on him are really helping, but he starts to relax anyway, if only because Linhardt won’t stop coaxing him to take deep breaths.
“S-sorry, Linhardt.” He feels like he keeps saying that, and starts to feel a little bit self-conscious, especially when that came out of absolutely nowhere.
Thats what he gets for bottling it up all this time, he supposes. No one to blame but himself. He’s trapped now, not being able to tell Linhardt why he’s been avoiding him without telling him exactly what he’s been avoiding telling him, but also not wanting Linhardt to think he’s upset him in some way—
Argh. It’s all just… Too much . This is exactly why he didn’t want to be dealing with this in the middle of the war . He has to worry about getting out alive , getting Linhardt out alive, not about— not about not being able to breathe because he can’t avoid talking about his feelings any longer.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Linhardt says simply.
He doesn’t say it like it’s meant to sound comforting. He just… Says it, and sounds almost confused. Like it’s something obvious, and he has no idea why Caspar would say something like that.
He laughs, not nervously, just… Happy , even though he feels really tired and fragile all of a sudden. He’s glad that Linhardt is Linhardt, as stupid as it might sound.
There are a lot of reasons Caspar is in love with Linhardt, but the fact that he’s just so reliable is… A pretty big one. Not that he’s been thinking about it all the time or anything. Not that it’s been completely taking over his mind for a week now.
“Please, Caspar. You know you can tell me anything.”
Linhardt’s hand goes back to his back, rubbing up and down. It’s a familiar soothing motion. Caspar is used to it from when Linhardt comforts him in the middle of a storm.
Another reason he fell in love with him. Fuck.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and bends forward. He wants to put his head between his knees, but he’s not sure that would really help the situation. He leaves it as a potential option, though, in case he starts feeling sick to his stomach.
“...you promise not to get mad?”
He practically slaps himself, because his voice comes out so whiny , not to mention how childish he sounds. But it says something about how worried Linhardt apparently is, and how upset he sounds, that he doesn’t make fun of or tease him at all, not even a little bit.
“Of course.”
He does do that thing again where he makes it sound like Caspar is ridiculous for even asking, which, yeah. He feels like he is. Linhardt is his best friend. He’s not worried about him hating him. He’s just…
Worried about every other possible outcome of this situation.
“I’ve been avoiding you because…” He pauses and starts chewing on his lower lip, since it gives him something to think about other than what he’s saying. He’s never been good at thinking. Not because he isn’t good at it— well, sometimes he really isn’t good at it, but more than that, sometimes he just gets too caught up with thinking. It’s easier to just act when it’s so easy to get bogged down with thinking.
It’s the philosophy he’s pretty much always lived by. So he decides he might as well stick with it.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he blurts out. “Pretty much all the time. Even when I shouldn’t be because I need to be paying attention. That’s why I’ve been so distracted lately, why everyone’s been worried I’m going to get myself hurt.”
He sinks his head into his hands even as the words leave him. On the one hand, it’s a huge weight of his shoulders to finally say something; on the other hand, the weight has moved entirely into the pit of his stomach.
He reconsiders putting his head between his knees.
“Caspar…”
The hand pulls away from his back, but he expected that. Even though he didn’t say the actual words— because he’s not sure he could say them so suddenly like that, not like this , when he looks and feels pretty pathetic— it would be pretty weird if Linhardt didn’t react to it at all, and just acted like nothing had changed.
Maybe that’s the real reason why he didn’t want to say anything; he didn’t want anything to change . No matter how he feels about Linhardt, there’s never been anything more important to him than their friendship. It’s been pretty much the one thing he could rely on since he was a kid— his dad and brother, his position in his family, his future? All on shaky ground, even now with the Empire being what it is, but Linhardt?
Linhardt has always been there…
“How long?”
That’s enough to get him to look up, look over at Linhardt, in surprise if nothing else. He was half-expecting a gentle let-down, or as gentle as Linhardt ever was. (Gentler than people thought, but he was blunt, always speaking his mind, no time for fake sympathy. Terrible bedside manner, but Caspar was used to it, which was probably why he was Linhardt’s favourite patient.)
“Uh…” He takes a second to figure out exactly what Linhardt is asking. “I… Figured it out not too long ago. But I’m pretty sure it’s been… A lot longer than that.”
“Before the academy?”
Confusion is better than the heavy sinking feeling Caspar was feeling before, but it’s still not great . And he’s only getting more confused with every question Linhardt asks, sounding more like he’s curious than upset, or— or whatever he’s supposed to feel when you find out your best friend is in love with you but you don’t love them back.
Maybe Caspar should have expected that, though. There’s never been anything usual about Linhardt…
(Another reason. Damn it, even when he’s sitting and waiting for the other shoe to drop, he can’t stop thinking about it!)
“Yeah… Before the Academy…”
He can’t look at Linhardt while he says it, but Linhardt doesn’t give him much of a choice when he reaches over, hand on Caspar’s jaw, and gently turns him to face him.
“I love you, Caspar.”
“...Huh?”
He blinks, takes a second to process. Then another second. And another.
“...What?”
“I said I love you,” Linhardt repeated, so casually. He was smiling, a little, but the look on his face was calm and almost plain otherwise. “If that’s what’s had you so distracted, you don’t need to worry.”
Caspar blinks more.
Then, he falls back onto his bed.
Linhardt falls back onto the bed next to him, folding his arms over his chest. Caspar turns his head so they’re looking each other in the eye.
“You love me?” he repeats.
“Mhm.”
“Before the Academy?”
“Since we were children, Caspar. Since—”
“—before you even knew what love was?”
“Hm. Maybe a little more poetic than I would have put it, but yes. I didn’t realize you were such a romantic, Caspar.”
“Heh. I’ve been— getting a lot of practice in lately.”
He laughs, and then he can’t stop laughing. He laughs until there are tears in his eyes and his stomach hurts, and Linhardt stares at him like he’s lost his mind.
He probably has. Serves him right for all that anxiety, that panic, and now here they are with Linhardt telling him to easily that he loves him , like it’s the easiest thing to come out and say.
“Why—” He has to pause to catch his breath in the middle of the sentence. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t quite realize it until recently, much like you,” Linhardt says with a shrug, or at least Caspar assumes it’s a shrug; it’s hard to tell when they’re both lying down. “And it didn’t seem like the appropriate time to bring it up. I thought it could wait until after the war. And you were avoiding me.”
Caspar laughs again, but only a small one this time, a self-depreciating one as he realizes how much of an idiot he’s been.
“I love you too, Lin,” he says, because he suddenly realizes he never actually said it . “If that wasn’t obvious.”
“It was,” Linhardt says.
“Hey— there’s no way you knew!”
“Hm… Perhaps.”
Linhardt is still smiling, and Caspar smiles back, even though he knows he’s being made fun of. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is gone, but now he feels weak all over, like he’s been training all day. The tension has gone right out of him…
“Did you really get that distracted just thinking about me?” Linhardt asks. “Ferdinand was in such a tizzy over the fact that he nearly took your legs out in training…”
“Don’t remind me,” Caspar says with a groan, practically slapping himself in the face.
Linhardt takes his other hand, entwining their fingers.
“You’re an idiot, Caspar.” Then, a sigh. “But I love you regardless. I always have.”
Somehow, even considering the beginning, those are the sweetest words he could have possibly heard.