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The last battle had been grueling, but then, Linhardt thinks every battle is grueling, so he’s hardly the best judge of it. At the very least, their enemies had been mercenaries, apparently deemed by the archbishop, in all her wisdom, to be the best use of the church’s funds, instead of former classmates. Or maybe there had been former classmates in the bunch–-Linhardt remembers only the most prominent members of the other classes, and he is even trying to forget those, so he could well have killed a member of the Officers Academy Class of 1181 without even knowing.
So yes. Grueling.
But they are back safe in the monastery, as safe as they ever are two (or nearly three? it can be hard to keep track) years deep into a continent-wide war. More importantly, Linhardt has an important bit of routine to deal with–-now that they are safely home, it falls on him to patch Caspar up.
And he’s in rough shape, too, having taken a nasty swipe on the chest that likely would have killed him if Linhardt had not long grown accustomed to watching him like a hawk, swooping in with Heal glimmering across his fingertips the instant he saw him falter. But Linhardt had been watching (always), and he had swooped in, and Caspar is safe, now (never, not until the war is over).
Now, they’re in the infirmary, Caspar seated on the edge of a cot, shirtless as Linhardt sets about applying a salve to the nasty gash across his chest. The injury does not, apparently, bring him down, because he’s grinning as he asks, “What’s the prognosis, doc?”
“You’re an idiot,” Linhardt says, almost conversational, as he sets about rebandaging the wound. Caspar, for his part, frowns, and swats at him in what he probably thinks is a gentle manner, and is in fact a bit painful.
“Bernie’s squishy,” he says, as if Linhardt has any idea what that means. “That unit was a threat to the backlines, so I had to take them out.”
“Single-handedly? Really, Caspar.”
“It was me or Bernie, who wasn’t paying attention–“
“On top of being squishy.”
“Yeah! Exactly!”
Linhardt sighs. It’s exactly what he expected of Caspar, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying every time he turns away from a felled enemy to look at Caspar only to find he’s halfway across the field crowded by enemies. He usually makes it out. This time, he very nearly didn’t.
He shakes his head, attention on finishing wrapping Caspar’s chest and hiding that ugly red line. Dwelling on it won’t do a thing–-they’re both alive, anyway. Safe until the next fight.
“I just wish you’d think of me every once in a while,” he complains. “I’m pretty squishy, too, and I’m the one rushing in to save your life.”
“Don’t you have Physic?” Caspar tilts his head at him, smiling softly. “You could save my life from the back, you know.”
“Oh, but I know you treasure the personal touch,” he says dryly. Caspar snorts, and Linhardt clings to the sense of normalcy it brings, like they’re twelve years old again and all Caspar’s done is fallen out of a tree he’d climbed too high. He can pretend, for a moment.
No longer than that. He sighs heavily. “I mean it when I say you need to be more careful,” he says, voice quiet. Tying the bandage off, he finds he has nothing left to do with his hands, but he doesn’t want to lose the proximity. Instead, he settles his hands on Caspar’s bare shoulders, gaze lingering on the wound, as he says, “You’re an important part of this army, Caspar. Losing you would be a terrible blow.”
It’s accurate to say as much. It is. But also: it isn’t what Linhardt means . It’s the thing he’s been dodging, since they were in school and even before, though he didn’t realize it then. Losing Caspar would be a terrible loss for the army, yes, but more importantly: Linhardt doesn’t know that he’d recover. Caspar, over more than a decade of friendship, had wormed his way into Linhardt’s heart and become the most important person in his life, supplanting even himself . And given how selfish he is, he’s quite impressed by that.
The short of it is: Linhardt is deeply, inconveniently in love with his best friend, who is both patently clueless and horrifically reckless; if he doesn’t develop some sort of heart condition, it will be a miracle of the goddess.
He can feel Caspar’s gaze on him and he doesn’t look, doesn’t look, doesn’t look, lets the silence stretch out until he says, gentle, “Lin.” That’s all it takes for Linhardt to drag his eyes up to meet Caspar’s, and oh –-they’re soft, and open, and he feels his heart turning to goo under that look. Without even thinking, he moves closer, steps into the space between Caspar’s legs, bends his head down lower.
“Caspar,” he says, voice barely a whisper, because their faces are so close and his hands spark on his shoulders and oh, there’s Caspar’s hand settled on his hip. He wets his lips-Caspar’s eyes follow the movement. Oh . “I.” There’s nothing else he can say–-the words stick in his throat, and he’s stripped bare and spread open and there’s nothing he can do, now. Caspar leans in closer and Linhardt follows, drawn into him, and their noses almost brush and his heart is racing in his chest and–
“Caspie!” Dorothea cries, sweeping into the room, and Linhardt has never moved faster in his life, slipping out of Caspar’s grasp and uselessly picking up medical supplies and relocating them. Caspar gapes, hand still hovering in the air over where he’d been standing just a moment before, until he drops it to his lap.
“Hey, Thea,” he says, sounding a little strained, and Linhardt doesn’t look at him, pretending to be engrossed in reshelving supplies even though he’s surely flushed and his heartbeat drums in his ears. Stupid . He’d been so, so stupid.
“Aw, poor Caspar,” Dorothea coos, stepping into his personal space like it’s nothing –-Linhardt envies her boldness, if nothing else. “How are you feeling? That was a nasty hit you took.”
“I’m fine,” Caspar says, laughing a little. “Lin’s got me patched up.”
“He always does!” She turns her attention to him, now, and he has to turn and give her his attention. She’s smiling, bright, but not like she suspects anything–-small graces. “What do you think, Linny, will he survive?”
He shuffles uncomfortably, pointedly not looking at Caspar. “He’d better,” he mutters. “It’d be a waste of a lot of work if he didn’t.”
Dorothea laughs. “Oh, that’s what I’d thought you’d say.” She bites her lip, that familiar sorrow creeping into her features. “Unfortunately, if he’s clear to go, we need him out . We’ve got a line clear across the bridge of injured who need cots.” She turns to Caspar, offers him a strained smile. “Sorry about that."
“Nah, that’s alright,” he shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not feeling too terrible.” Linhardt feels his eyes on him and doesn’t look . He can’t believe how stupid he’d been.
“Now, Caspie, I’m sure you still need your rest,” Dorothea chides. “Doctor’s orders, alright?”
“...Right.”
“Lin, you better give him a hand back.” His eyebrows shoot straight up, and Dorothea sighs in exasperation. “I’m relieving you of duty, dummy. I know you hate infirmary duty. And Caspar really should have an escort back to his room, just in case.” Unspoken: in case he decides to sneak off and try to train while he’s still recovering. Message received, loud and clear.
“Okay,” Caspar says, practically jumping to his feet. Linhardt and Dorothea both instinctively reach out to steady him, but he seems fine. “Come on, Linhardt.”
Linhardt doesn’t wait around. He spins on his heel and strides out, trusting Caspar to be right behind him. Hurrying isn’t something he does, much, but he may be doing it now–-the sooner Caspar’s in his room, the sooner Linhardt can go to his own and bury his face in his pillow and scream . He can’t believe his little display in the infirmary–-how humiliating .
“Lin!” Caspar says, coming up behind him, and it’s only then he realizes how quickly he’d been walking. Caspar seems almost out of breath, and Linhardt feels a pang of guilt. “Hey, hang on a second.”
“You need rest, Caspar.” Not looking. Don’t look. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Just hang on .” Caspar grabs his arm, pulling him to a halt. Linhardt finally looks at him, only this time Caspar’s not looking back–-he’s looking down, frowning, in that way that means he’s thinking. Linhardt lets him, for as long as he can, before the silence gets uncomfortable.
“Look, Caspar, can we just–”
“Lin.” His tone draws him up short. Finally, Caspar meets his gaze, and his eyes are steely. Determined. “Were you going to kiss me earlier?”
Linhardt casts his eyes aside, afraid that Caspar will read the answer in them. So, so stupid . “Caspar, please–”
“Linhardt, I have to know.” His voice shakes just the slightest bit, with an emotion he can’t name. “I need to know if you wanted to kiss me.”
His eyes meet Caspar’s, searching. Slowly, Linhardt shakes his head. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says softly.
Caspar studies him a few moments, and then Linhardt can see him make the decision. He steps into his space, one hand returning to his hip and the other coming up to rest on his cheek. “Stop me,” he whispers, and Linhardt shakes his head again, I can’t . Caspar waits for just a moment longer before he’s pushing himself up and leaning in closer and their noses brush, and then–
Caspar’s kissing him, gentle and sweet and soft, and every bit of tension saps from Linhardt’s body, and he kisses back . It’s over all too soon, Caspar retracting just enough to get a look at his face, to frown and scan him like he’s waiting for a reaction. It occurs to Linhardt that oh, yes, he probably is.
“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to then, and for some time before that, and I want to now, too.”
Caspar’s eyes are shining, and he’s grinning, but his voice is uncharacteristically quiet as he says, “ Lin . You shoulda said something. I’d kiss you as much as you like. Before, and then, and now –”
“Alright, enough teasing,” he grouses, shoving gently at his face. Caspar laughs and wraps him up in a bear hug, and soon Linhardt’s laughing, too, and they’re both just standing there holding each other and laughing like madmen. It’s probably the best Linhardt’s ever felt.
“Lin,” Caspar says again, burrowing his face in his chest. “I can’t believe-you actually want to kiss me? You mean it?”
“Oh, Caspar,” he says, and then he’s taking his face in his hands and pulling him up into another kiss–-a little harder, a little deeper, a little more insistent . “Caspar,” he breathes after they separate, “after only two, I can confidently say I’d be more than happy to make a career out of kissing you.”
“Now who’s teasing?” Caspar complains, cheeks red under his touch. He grins and gives him another kiss, a bit too quick for Linhardt’s taste. “Wow, Lin. I love you.”
Linhardt feels himself flush. “I love you too. Of course.” One last kiss, lingering, before he pulls away. “But I was serious about you getting a rest, you know.”
“Hm, I’m no good at resting,” Caspar replies, cheeky. “Do you happen to know of anyone who could come along and show me how it’s done?”
“Oh, you flirt .” Linhardt grabs his hand and resumes the walk to Caspar’s room. “You know the way straight to my heart, don’t you?"
Caspar beams. “Sounds like a yes to me.”
“Oh, of course it’s a yes.” He gives Caspar’s hand a squeeze. “Come on, now, I’ve been promised a nap and I won’t stop until I get it.”
Caspar chuckles. “Your wish is my command.”
They aren’t safe, just yet, and they likely won’t be for some time, but Linhardt takes solace in this: they’re together, and for right now, that’s enough.