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SEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE JOURNEY
“You need to take a vacation,” Caspar says.
It takes Linhardt a moment to raise his eyes from the book he’d been reading, and another moment to drag his thoughts into the present, where he is immediately confronted by three distinct problems.
First, that there is buttery yellow sunlight pouring through the window of the library, which means that once again he got so involved in his reading that he utterly forgot to go to bed. Which, in turn, means that he will be sleepy all day and people will bother him if they catch him trying to nap, even if they don’t actually need him for anything. It baffles him sometimes how offended people seem to be that he doesn’t abide by an ordinary sleeping schedule, but Linhardt has never understood why morning people dictate the schedule for everyone and he was remarkably young when he decided that he didn’t care.
Second, he has been so involved in the book that he was reading that he’s neglected to keep up with his note taking. There is a distinct trailing off in his notebook that he recognizes from past endeavors, that point where his thoughts outstripped his ability to write them down, resulting in a long, aimless scribble and a splotch of ink. He frowns in dismay at the mess, touches it with a finger. The ink is dry, which means he has been napping at least a few hours.
Third, Caspar is leaning against the bookshelf in a way that makes Linhardt suspect that he tried several poses before settling on the one he is in now, one hand on his hip, the other supporting his head. His feet are crossed at the ankle in a way that is clearly meant to be casual but just looks somewhat awkward instead. It’s endearing, in a way, but also worrisome. Caspar has been behaving this way a lot recently, and the more Linhardt tries to ignore it, the stiffer and stranger Caspar becomes.
“A vacation?” Linhardt says finally, stirring and stretching like a cat. His back crackles like dry twigs and he winces. Breakfast and then a nice nap in the grass beneath a tree will sort him out. “What on earth would I do with a vacation?”
Caspar seems nonplussed at the question. “You know,” he says awkwardly, dropping his pose and moving to help Linhardt stand. Good thing, too, because Linhardt doesn’t realize until after he puts his foot down and stumbles that his entire leg has fallen asleep. Caspar catches him with a strong arm around his waist and holds him just a moment too long before flushing bright red and clearing his throat.
“You know,” he says again, hurriedly bending to gather Linhardt’s books. “It’s a vacation. You go unwind! We could go fishing and riding and you can read and I can train.” Linhardt winces a little as Caspar stuffs the books into his satchel, his expression one of gentle bemusement.
“We?” he asks. Caspar turns purple.
“Oh! I mean… if you want to go alone, of course you should,” he babbles, slinging the satchel over his shoulder and offering Linhardt an arm. Linhardt considers it for a moment, then takes it. His leg is still mostly asleep and Caspar is easily strong enough to support his weight. He just wishes that Caspar wouldn’t be so… well, weird. “I just thought it might be nice to have someone go along with you, you know, and I would feel much better if I knew you had someone to protect you while you were away from the monastery.”
The sun hits Linhardt like a slap in the face, and he raises a long hand to shade his eyes. The monastery has changed a lot since they were students here, but in many ways it is the same as always. People are beginning to emerge, ready to go about their day, and Linhardt experiences a brief flare of distaste. Not necessarily directed at any of them in particular, just a general feeling of malaise at the thought of being out and about while the sun is shining.
Maybe Caspar is right. Maybe he does need a vacation.
They make their way across the bridge; halfway, Linhardt’s leg wakes up fully and he lets go of Caspar’s arm. Caspar starts to say something, then bites his lips and shakes his head slightly. Linhardt barely notices.
“If you were going to pick a place to go on vacation,” he asks, “where would you go?” Caspar doesn’t answer immediately and Linhardt turns to look at him. Caspar’s eyes are bright with excitement and his lips are parted ever so slightly. They’re chapped, Linhardt notices, and he wonders if Caspar would use an ointment if he were to give him one.
“I know the best place!” Caspar says, bouncing on his toes. “There’s a hunting lodge that my brother used to take me to, it belonged to a friend of his, but his friend died and before he died he told my brother he could have it, and I’m sure I could get the key for you!” In his excitement, Caspar is walking faster than Linhardt, then catching himself and circling back, then forgetting again and bounding ahead. He is, Linhardt thinks, very much like a puppy.
“It sounds nice,” Linhardt says doubtfully. “But I don’t care for hunting, so I’m not sure it would be right for me.”
“Oh! No!” Caspar almost trips as he twists, walking backwards so that he can face Linhardt as he talks. It’s something he’s done since they were children, and Linhardt covers his mouth with one hand, pretending to cough so that Caspar doesn’t see his fond smile.
“You wouldn’t need to go hunting or anything,” he says. “That’s not all there is to do. There’s a fishing pond, for one! I know you like fishing.” He looks very proud of himself for recalling this little factoid. Linhardt fake coughs again.
“I do like fishing, and it would be nice to have an isolated place to work on my research,” he says slowly. The war is over, or as good as over, and while he’s certain to be called upon by the Emperor at some point during the rebuilding process, Linhardt is fairly sure he can slip away right now without causing too much of a stir.
“Yeah?” Caspar says. There is tension in every line of his body, a strain in his voice. Linhardt leans away a little. He’s accustomed to Caspar’s absurd energy level, but this is a bit much even for him, and Linhardt once saw him do push-ups for almost a solid hour because a girl told him she liked his haircut.
“Yes, I think maybe I will take a vacation,” Linhardt agrees. The smile that blooms on Caspar’s face is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
“GREAT,” he says, then clears his throat and flushes as his voice echoes off of the stone walls of the monastery. Linhardt doesn’t hide his smile this time, and Caspar laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck and shrugging sheepishly.
“I mean,” he says again, “great, that’s great. My brother will be here next week, I can write him before he comes and tell him to bring the key. Is that all right? Is next week good?”
Linhardt regards him with mild surprise. He hadn’t actually invited Caspar, hadn’t really considered it. As much as he loves his friend, Caspar can be a bit much and Linhardt can’t imagine himself getting anything done once Caspar reaches that critical boredom threshold and starts pestering him to do things every day. On the other hand, the lodge does belong to Caspar’s brother and it would be rude to just take the key and leave Caspar behind. And he’d been right earlier, when he’d expressed his desire to protect Linhardt. Just because the major fighting is done, that doesn’t mean the countryside is necessarily safe.
“Next week is fine,” he says.
The hug Caspar gives him lifts him off of his feet.
***
FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE JOURNEY
“I hear you’ll be leaving for a bit, Linhardt,” Ferdinand says.
Linhardt yawns and stretches and opens one eye. Ferdinand is standing on the other side of the desk that Linhardt fell asleep on, hands clasped behind his back, a sunny smile on his face. Linhardt recognizes the expression. He thinks of it as Ferdinand’s Terribly Sorry To Bother You But I Am More Important Than You So I’m Not That Sorry look.
“I’m going on vacation,” Linhardt says. “Just for a week or two.”
“Vacation,” Ferdinand repeats. His tone is vaguely accusatory. “I can’t believe you’re going to leave the library!”
“I’m planning on taking a few books,” Linhardt lies. He has an entire trunk full of books that he has already smuggled out of the library, packed and ready to go. “And my fishing pole.”
“Where are you going?” Ferdinand says.
“Oh, Caspar’s brother has a hunting lodge,” Linhardt says vaguely.
“Caspar?” Ferdinand leans forward, his eyes uncomfortably focused, like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. “Is Caspar going with you?”
“Yes,” Linhardt says. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Ferdinand murmurs, slowly straightening. His eyes narrow slightly and he starts to say something, then changes his mind. Linhardt watches a complex emotional pantomime play out across Ferdinand’s face with mild concern. Why is everyone being so strange lately?
“If we’re needed here, we don’t have to go,” Linhardt says, mystified.
“No!” Ferdinand says at once, with surprising vehemence. “No, you should definitely go. I think it will be good for you.” A tiny smile touches his lips and he backs away, hands tucked behind him once again, then turns and leaves the room with a strange spring in his step.
Linhardt watches him go, a puzzled frown on his face.
***
THREE DAYS BEFORE THE JOURNEY
A whiff of sweet perfume announces Dorothea’s presence before she sits down next to Linhardt, a bright smile on her pretty face. Her hair, as always, looks exceptionally soft and shiny and Linhardt, who is secretly vain about his own hair, wonders what she uses to wash it.
“Hello, Linhardt,” she says brightly. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit and talk to you while I eat.”
“Of course not,” he answers, carefully marking his place in the book on Crests he’d been reading. And which he would prefer to continue reading, but he likes Dorothea and knows that once she’s made up her mind to talk, not much will dissuade her.
“I hear you and Caspar are going on a little trip together,” she says, a mysterious smile on her face.
“Yes,” Linhardt says, a furrow appearing between his brows. “His brother has a hunting lodge.”
“I didn’t know you liked hunting,” she remarks, digging a spoon into her peach sorbet.
“I don’t,” he says. “Caspar says there’s a fishing pond, though. And I’m taking a few books.”
“That sounds very peaceful.” Dorothea stares at him meaningfully and Linhardt, confused once again, murmurs agreement. There’s silence for a moment, and then Dorothea’s eyes narrow very slightly and she speaks again.
“Was it Caspar’s idea?”
“Yes,” Linhardt says. “He told me I should take a vacation. And offered the hunting lodge.” He’s not certain where this conversation is going, though Dorothea seems to have an objective in mind.
“He’s very sweet,” she says, winking. Linhardt stares at her in alarm. “And handsome. He even got a little taller, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he did,” Linhardt says slowly. “And… he is, yes. But I don’t see what that has to do with us going on vacation.” Dorothea laughs.
“Oh nothing,” she says, waving her spoon as though dismissing the topic. “I just like him, that’s all.”
They chat a while longer, talking about this and that. Dorothea asks about what Linhardt is reading, he manages a few vague questions about the opera. The subject turns to the newly ended war and the Emperor, at which point a delicate blush touches Dorothea’s cheeks.
“I’m just pleased that we will be able to spend more time together now,” Dorothea says softly. “I know she’ll have to go and be the Emperor soon, but it is nice to have her here just a little bit longer.”
“I’m sure she’d like it if you went with her,” Linhardt says, not certain at all that it is the right thing to say, particularly when Dorothea twists to regard him, her eyes narrowed questioningly.
“You know,” he adds, “when she returns to Enbarr.”
Dorothea stares for a moment, then laughs lightly and covers his hand with her own for a moment. She gives it a soft squeeze and then places her bowl of peach sorbet in front of him. She’s eaten a little more than half of it.
“You’re very sweet, Linhardt,” she sighs, rising. “Finish that sorbet for me, will you?”
“Of course,” he says. He’d rather been hoping she would offer him some. He already got a bowl from the kitchen about an hour ago and can’t in good conscience go back for seconds quite yet. “I hope things work out with you and the Emperor.”
“I’m sure they will,” Dorothea says, dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she leaves. “You and Caspar give me hope, anyhow.”
Linhardt watches her go, unsure what exactly that is supposed to mean, then shrugs and sighs and turns back to his book, and to the pressing issue of the rapidly melting sorbet.
***
ONE DAY BEFORE THE JOURNEY
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, Linhardt,” Hubert says. He doesn’t sit down, even when Linhardt reluctantly pats the grass next to him. He just sort of looms there, like a great black buzzard. Linhardt reflects on the likelihood of Hubert just going away and leaving him alone, then sighs and stands up.
“What can I do for you, Hubert?” he asks, hoping that Hubert hasn’t actually come to ask a favor.
“I hear you will be leaving the monastery for a while,” Hubert says, beginning to walk. Linhardt watches him go until Hubert turns and looks at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, you wanted me to come?” Linhardt sighs and picks up his book. “All right. Yes, I’m going on a little trip. With Caspar, before you ask.”
Hubert nods, as though that was precisely what he’d been about to inquire after.
“Why is everyone so interested in this trip?” Linhardt asks, falling into step with Hubert. It’s time for him to get up anyhow; the sun is going down, bathing the monastery in rich, ruddy light. Perfect for gazing idly at the colors on the horizon, not so much for getting any appreciable amount of reading done.
“What do you mean?” Hubert asks, throwing him a sharp glance.
“Everyone I’ve talked to lately has asked me about it,” Linhardt says. “I find it all very strange.”
Hubert is quiet for a long time, so long that Linhardt thinks that he’s forgotten they were even having a conversation. Finally, he speaks, startling Linhardt out of a daydream of being the only person left in the world.
“I am asking on behalf of the Emperor,” Hubert says carefully. Linhardt frowns.
“Why should the Emperor care about my vacation?”
“She doesn’t,” Hubert says. “She cares about what may happen on your vacation.”
“Ah,” Linhardt says. “Bandits?”
“No,” Hubert replies, frowning. “You and Caspar can handle bandits. She just wanted me to tell you that you have her blessing.”
“I do?” Linhardt wrinkles his nose in confusion.
“Yes,” Hubert says, bowing at the waist. “And for what it’s worth, you have mine as well.”
Linhardt stops walking and this time Hubert does not turn around and wait for him.
“What,” he says softly, “is going on?”
***
THE DAY OF THE JOURNEY
“Be careful with those, please,” Linhardt calls to the knights who are struggling to lift his third trunk of books into the back of the wagon. “Some of them are very valuable.”
He turns to look to the west, brow wrinkling. There are dark clouds building there, ominous and full of rain. He can’t hear the thunder yet, but he knows it’s there, and it looks as if the entire mess is headed in their direction. Caspar swears that the lodge is only a day’s journey from Garreg Mach, and Linhardt hopes for the sake of his books that Caspar is right.
He searches the crowd for his traveling companion and spies Caspar happily inspecting the food and supplies. He’d offered to handle loading the food, a fact which would not have normally aroused suspicion in Linhardt - who would never have volunteered for such a task and was honestly a little exhausted by just the prospect of it - except that Caspar had blurted out the words as soon as he’d seen Linhardt, upon which he had… well, perhaps ‘scampered’ wasn’t entirely fair, but it was the nearest word to describe the way Caspar was moving today.
“Linhardt,” says a voice from behind him. He turns and offers what he considers a respectable bow. Edelgard doesn’t look especially impressed by it, but she clearly didn’t come just to see him pay his respects.
“Can I help you, Your Majesty?” he asks. Edelgard nods curtly.
“Hubert told me that he spoke to you,” she says. Linhardt peers past her, trying to see her ever present shadow. Edelgard clears her throat.
“He did,” Linhardt confirms cautiously. “He said I had your blessing? I’m not sure what he meant by that, but thank you.”
“Of course,” Edelgard says. She seems slightly uncomfortable and Linhardt cannot imagine why. “I thought it was fairly obvious, though. Caspar has been talking about it all week, I supposed that you knew.”
“Knew what?” Linhardt asks, alarmed. “Is he planning something?” Edelgard’s eyes narrow. For once, Linhardt is not the only one confused.
“He’s been wooing you for months,” she says. “Did you not notice? Oh Linhardt…”
It feels as though a pile of bricks has been dropped on his head. The breath goes out of his lungs. Wooing him? Caspar? The past two months flash through his mind in a blur: Caspar coming to fetch him from the library in the mornings; Caspar making sure that he eats; Caspar bringing him little gifts, notebooks and new ink and fishing lures, and blushing when Linhardt expressed his appreciation.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh no.”
“Yes,” Edelgard says slowly. “Well. Best of luck to you.” She turns to leave, pauses, and adds, “If you must turn him down, be kind about it. He’s quite enamored with you.”
Linhardt turns, searching the courtyard for Caspar again and looking at him through new eyes. Caspar looks up and catches sight of him and waves so enthusiastically that he almost punches a merchant in the face.
“Oh Caspar,” he sighs, and starts across the courtyard to help.
***
ON THE JOURNEY
There is a little nest in the back of the wagon, a pile of pillows and blankets for Linhardt to settle down in so that he can read and nap the journey away.
“I thought it would be nice,” Caspar had said, his eyes fixed nervously on Linhardt’s face as though awaiting his approval. Linhardt, painfully aware of Caspar’s emotions after Edelgard’s disclosure, had smiled and patted Caspar on the shoulder.
“It’s perfect,” he’d said, climbing into the back of the wagon. “Thank you, Caspar. You’re very thoughtful.” Caspar had smiled so brilliantly at him that Linhardt had almost grabbed him by the face and kissed him right then and there.
It’s strange to think of Caspar in that way. Really, it’s strange to think of anyone in that way; it isn’t as though Linhardt hasn’t considered romance, just that he’s always treated it rather as an academic exercise, not truly something that he himself will ever engage in. Now that the opportunity has presented itself, however, Linhardt can’t help wondering what it would be like.
Caspar is sweet, certainly, in an aggressive, grubby sort of way. He’s always asking Linhardt to train with him, or watch him train, and it occurs to Linhardt for the first time that perhaps Caspar has been trying to show off for him. He also goes out of his way to do nice things for Linhardt; he brings him breakfast, or saves him his favorite meal when Linhardt is too distracted to go to the dining hall. He picks up gifts for him at the market, helps him carry things, even carries him sometimes, when Linhardt is too weary to walk.
“He’s planned an entire vacation for me,” Linhardt murmurs to himself, mouth twisting wryly.
But Caspar isn’t perfect! He’s loud and brash and can be very annoying at times. Being with him will require Linhardt to devote attention to him which Linhardt would much rather put towards his research. It will be rather like a dog and a cat trying to make a relationship work.
But he is handsome. And strong. Frustrating, but honest. Aggressive, but sweet. Linhardt sighs and closes his book. He’s spent the entire journey so far worried over what Caspar has planned once they arrive at the lodge. He hopes it isn’t some grand romantic gesture, both because he isn’t certain that Caspar really knows how to orchestrate a grand gesture, but also because he is fairly sure that he himself will melt into a puddle of embarrassment if he is exposed to even the slightest hint of romance.
There is a patter on the canvas cover of the wagon and Linhardt moves to open the back flap. It is beginning to rain and he immediately thinks of Caspar, sitting on the seat at the front, totally uncovered. In the distance, there is a low rumble of thunder.
Linhardt clambers back to the front of the wagon and through the cover. Caspar’s shoulders are hunched, his head turned up to the sky, but when he feels Linhardt climb up beside him, he straightens and manages a wobbly smile.
“Hey Lin,” he says. “You ought to get back in the wagon, you’re going to get all wet up here.”
Linhardt stares at him for a long moment, then smiles sleepily and loops his arm through Caspar’s, snuggling close. Caspar stiffens against his side, then exhales slowly and relaxes as Linhardt leans in to rest his head on Caspar’s shoulder.
“I’ll stay out here with you, if you don’t mind,” he says. “I’m afraid of lightning.”
There is a jagged flash of light in the sky and then a long, loud peal of thunder. A quick tremor runs through Caspar, and then he leans into Linhardt, his cheek resting on the top of Linhardt’s head.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says. “I’ll protect you, Lin.”
“My hero,” Linhardt murmurs, then smiles as another, very different sort of tremor shivers through Caspar’s body.
***
AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY
They arrive at the lodge as night is falling, soaking wet but in high spirits. For the past few hours, Linhardt has been babbling on about Crest research to keep Caspar’s mind off of the storm that rages around them. The road wound up the side of a small mountain and back down into a valley, plunged into the woods, twisted and turned through avenues of trees, and then finally crossed a small bridge before ending at the lodge.
It’s a modestly large building, easily big enough for six or seven, though Caspar and Linhardt will have it to themselves. Linhardt reluctantly tends to the horses as Caspar unloads their things, and by the time he has them dried and brushed and tucked away in the stable with their feed, Caspar has hauled everything inside and is busily unpacking supplies in the large kitchen.
“You didn’t have to carry the books,” Linhardt says, secretly impressed. It took two men to load each of those trunks into the wagon and they had struggled to lift them. Caspar, meanwhile, has neatly tucked them away along the wall, next to a huge, comfortable looking chair.
“It’s no problem!” Caspar calls. “I didn’t want them to sit out in the rain, they might have gotten moldy and I know there’s some old ones in there.”
“Thank you,” Linhardt says, taking the towel that Caspar laid out for him and wringing the water out of his hair. “I’m going to change, then I’ll make dinner if you like.”
“Yeah,” Caspar says, turning to flash a brilliant smile. “That would be nice!”
Somewhat less than an hour later, they are both dry and warm and Linhardt has set the daphnel stew to simmer, filling the lodge with the savory smell of cooking meat and vegetables. Caspar starts a fire in the hearth and they sit together in companionable silence, Linhardt tucked into the overstuffed chair, Caspar sprawled on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire.
There is a book in Linhardt’s lap, but he isn’t reading it. He can’t help but glance up at Caspar every minute or so to examine his face, to wonder what he’s thinking about. Caspar is so rarely quiet and still that Linhardt can’t help worrying. Is he ill? Is he upset? But every time he looks, Caspar has a tiny smile on his face and a dreamy look in his eyes, as though he’s fantasizing about something wonderful and doesn’t want to stop.
Several times, Linhardt starts to say something and then stops himself. Everything that he thinks to say feels silly and cliche. Should he ask Caspar what he’s thinking about? Should he tell him that, despite the storm, he’s having a wonderful time already? The scent of the stew is beginning to fill the hunting lodge and soon he’ll have to get up, finish dinner, and attempt to hold a conversation with Caspar that doesn’t sound foolish.
He isn’t accustomed to feeling this way. Typically, Linhardt devotes very little energy to what others think of him, but ever since finding out that Caspar has been trying to woo him, he hasn’t been able to keep it out of his mind. Is this what he wants?
He peers over the top of his book again and sees that Caspar has shifted. There is a thin strip of skin exposed on Caspar’s belly now, pale and flat, and he can see the tops of Caspar’s hip bones, the shadows where they dip in. His mind fills in the rest, tight muscle and smooth skin and…
“Hey Linnie,” Caspar says, sitting up abruptly. Linhardt, his cheeks flushed bright pink, hides behind his book.
“What is it?” he asks, hoping that his voice sounds normal, but knowing that it doesn’t.
“Can I ask you something?”
Linhardt chances a glance over the top of the book. Caspar is staring up at him with an earnestly determined expression on his face. His eyes are so bright that Linhardt can’t look into them for long.
“Of course,” he says lightly. “What is it?”
“Well.” Caspar rubs the back of his neck, color beginning to creep into his cheeks. “It’s not really asking, it’s more like I want to tell you something, I guess. It’s… important.”
“I’m listening,” Linhardt says. Caspar squirms.
“It’s just that… well, you know, we didn’t always get along as kids, but I did always think that you were really interesting and smart. And I wanted to be your friend, I just didn’t really know how. And then we were at the Academy and I had another chance, and the longer I spent around you, the more I liked you.” Caspar’s cheeks are blood red now and he can’t look Linhardt in the eyes. Linhardt realizes that he can’t bring himself to say it, and something inside him screams that he’s going to have to take the plunge himself.
“I like you too,” he says, testing the waters. Caspar laughs nervously.
“Yeah! I just…” He squirms, looks over his shoulder into the kitchen, rubs the back of his neck again. “Man, that stew sure smells good!”
“Thank you,” Linhardt says. “You just what?”
“Thank you for being my friend,” Caspar says miserably. “That’s all.”
“Oh!” Linhardt closes his book and stands, trying desperately for his usual aloof demeanor and mostly succeeding. “I thought you were going to say that you were in love with me.”
“What?” Caspar sputters, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “No! Why would I… I mean, unless you wanted me to… w-would you like that? If I said that?”
“It would only be polite,” Linhardt says, barely able to hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears. “Since I’m in love with you.”
They stare at each other for a long moment. Linhardt feels like a wet noodle, shocked by the confession itself but more so by the truth of it. He does love Caspar, and he wants very much for Caspar to say it back to him.
The air rushes out of his lungs as Caspar barrels into him, strong arms wrapping tight around Linhardt’s slim waist. His feet leave the floor and he laughs in surprise, bracing his hands against Caspar’s shoulders to steady himself. He looks down at Caspar and is shocked to see his blue eyes welling with tears.
“Are you all right?” he asks, astonished.
“I love you so much,” Caspar says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, but there was the war and it just never seemed like the right time…”
Linhardt silences him with a kiss. It’s just a light one, a simple brush of his lips across Caspar’s mouth, but the atmosphere in the lodge is suddenly electric. Linhardt laughs softly and cups Caspar’s face in his long hands and kisses him again, and again. Caspar is clumsy at first, laughing as his nose bumps into Linhardt’s cheek, turning his head the wrong way so that their teeth bang together, but he soon gets the hang of it and his mouth feels impossibly warm as Linhardt’s tongue slips inside.
They are both breathing hard by the time they break apart. Linhardt is certain that if Caspar wasn’t holding him so tightly around the waist, his legs would have wobbled out from underneath him already. He leans in close, kisses Caspar tenderly on the corner of his mouth.
“Um,” Caspar says. There is a dazed light in his eyes, a smile that looks like it will never leave his face. “Wow.”
Linhardt laughs, kisses the tip of his nose. “Dinner is ready,” he says softly. “Let’s eat and then perhaps we can go to bed early.”
“Aww.” Caspar sighs wistfully but nods. “Yeah, if you’re tired we can go to sleep after dinner, it was a long trip, and you get so tired, I totally understand-”
“I didn’t say sleep,” Linhardt interrupts. Caspar stops speaking abruptly, understanding dawning on his face like a sunrise.
“Oh,” he says. His smile grows, seeming to fill his entire face. “Oh! Wow, okay. Yes. Let’s… uhh, let’s go ahead and eat and then maybe…”
Caspar shrugs and makes a frustrated noise in his throat, and then just scoops Linhardt up in his arms. Linhardt yelps a little as his legs are swept out from under him and after a disorienting moment, he finds himself cradled against Caspar’s chest, for once forced to look up at his friend. Caspar smiles, clearly pleased with Linhardt’s reaction.
“Show off,” Linhardt whispers fondly, his head on Caspar’s shoulder as Caspar carries him into the dining room.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Caspar promises. Linhardt leans up, kisses him on the cheek. They’re both blushing now, giddy as children. After everything that’s happened, this feels good. It feels right.
“I’m counting on it,” he says.