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“This is absurd! We march for Fhirdiad in six days!”
“Your sword is ready, but your hems are not.”
They are all seated on a bench in the knights’ hall, and Felix stares at the Professor like they just announced Felix will be taking a street performer certification to go along with his dancer one.
The Professor does not even look up from their own embroidery work. “Keep sewing. Or I’ll leave you behind.”
And Felix— Felix pouts.
Dimitri tries not to smile. He really does. He does not want Felix’s ire to fall on his own head, and it is, of course, quite understandable to feel immense frustration and impatience at such a seemingly insignificant task when every day the drums of war beat louder and louder into every minute of their lives. But the Professor always has their reasons for everything, inscrutable though they may be, and Dimitri— his fingers tighten around the delicate embroidery hoop in his own lap, the wood creaking in protest.
He trusts the Professor. How could he not? It has not even been a moon, but he wakes in his own bed now, in his own mind, more often than not.
He slowly pulls his needle through the turn of another white rose on the handkerchief he’s working on, hands trembling only a little as he carefully manages his strength. He’s been getting better at this, too, gently spurred on by both the Professor and Mercedes. It is large and clumsy art at best, a simple dagger surrounded by summer blooms, but the stitches themselves are neat twin rows marching along the hem.
Sweat suddenly prickles cold and terrible at the back of Dimitri’s neck, a feeling that knots itself in his chest, the needle a phantom pain between his fingers. He has had a lot of practice with his stitches, these last five years. He is a living testament of them, and he cannot help but count them now, dashed all around the edges of his limited vision, innumerable and unnamed and some named. Still fresh.
“Felix,” the Professor says then. “Words are not always useless.”
“Not bad, Dimitri,” Felix grumbles at him, as if ignoring the Professor completely. His thigh presses warm and solid against Dimitri’s as he leans over to peer at Dimitri’s work. The knot in his chest comes apart like Felix has cut right through it and Dimitri knows these things: that he is here, and it is the last week of the Harpstring moon, and he is warm even under this pale sun, and they march to the aid of their people in six days. “That sword could be bigger, though. Big swords are better.”
No, it is not bad at all. Felix’s ears glow an— an alluring sort of pink, and Felix’s praise is a clear sweet bell ringing at the back of his skull, and Felix’s leg against his burns hot like the sun itself has run up to sit in Dimitri’s throat.
The needle slips from his fingers and jabs his palm. Perhaps it has been a warmer spring than most, to have him addled like this.
Felix is still pouting at his own work. Though some would say war has not been kind to him, etching his skin with deep lines and his lips cracked by a hard life lived on the battlefield; his mouth looks soft and rich, like this, a thing wholly unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Nose scrunched up childishly like it used to, always. Morning light catching his dark hair soft and lustrous from below like it used to, always.
Dimitri does not smile, no, but he cannot help but stare. His hands still in their needlework. He permits himself this small thing, to feel the morning sun pooling warm and golden inside him for just a little while longer.
It feels— it feels like a friend again. Like Felix.
“Do you plan on spending the entire war sitting here, grinning foolishly at nothing?” Felix snaps, gaze turning away just as quickly as he had looked up. His cheeks are the thing glowing a lovely pink now.
Oh.
It may be that he cannot help but smile, afterall.
“My apologies, I did not mean to—”
“My work is done here,” the Professor announces, voice flat. They fold away a handkerchief with a crudely designed smiling face embroidered in bright green thread, standing as they make their way. “Great job.”
Felix frowns at his own handkerchief. It is a lion from Faerghus myth, but the mouth is rendered in a crooked and unsure hand, to form a crooked and unsure smile. It is— charming, but Dimitri knows better than to voice this to Felix.
“You know, you’re king, you don’t have to indulge this nonsense.”
“No, but I am not king yet,” Dimitri says softly as he looks at the dagger coming to life in his hands, stitch by careful stitch. He thinks a little mournfully that he may prefer it to the roses afterall. “But thank you all the same for your company, my friend.”
“Friend?” Felix’s mouth gapes, eyes wide, and suddenly Dimitri feels like they truly must be both addled by the sun.
“Are we not friends?” Bewilderment is a swinging pendulum in his chest, unbalancing him. “Felix?”
“Friends,” Felix mutters, and Dimitri can only watch as Felix stabs needle into cloth as one would pin an enemy through the throat.
*
“What reason is there for this?” Felix waves the green silk ribbon in his hand as if it has personally offended him, and perhaps it has. “We march for Derdriu in two days and the Professor has us playing at princesses!”
“The princess of Brigid is a fearsome warrior, and it would be nothing less than the highest honour to be held in such esteem on the battlefield.” Dimitri accepts the ribbon from Felix with one hand, holding with the other the end of the plaited tail of Ingrid’s pegasus. “Does one double the knot?”
“Of course you double the knot, you fool,” Felix sighs, crossing his arms. “Or else the ribbon comes undone.”
“I… see. You’re quite right, of course.”
An apple bag is slung across Felix’s sharply canted hip, and without his overcoat, his dark green undertunic has caught onto the crossed belts, pulling the wool fabric every time he lifts his arms. He is all winter skin and thin lines and elegantly formed angles, his body a blade at the ready, beautifully forged by his own unwavering will. Dimitri has always truly admired every part of him. Every movement, every turn, every pale scar that dips in and out under those belts, in and out with each breath Felix takes.
The pegasus noses impatiently at the curve of Felix’s hip and then at Felix’s hand, as if what it desperately desires will appear there by magic, and Dimitri suddenly feels a confusing kinship with the animal.
“Did you tie my ribbon with only one knot, Dimitri?” Amber eyes catch his, flashing.
“Perhaps…” He quickly swallows all his odd thoughts down. And yet his mouth is still dry. “Perhaps.”
Felix huffs, looking away. “Come do it properly then.”
Felix did let him practice the plait in his own hair first, least Dimitri get kicked by the pegasus for his first few clumsy attempts. And he can only be thankful Felix did not kick him, too, when he accidentally pulled too hard the times he lost himself in the delightful softness of those dark strands, in the faint smell of fresh sweat and brisk pine that clings to the back of Felix’s neck. The sharp green scent so like the one that followed them, when they were children playing at knights under the ancient trees that tower along that road that weaves Fraldarius to Fhirdiad. Felix, his sweet reminder of home.
Dimitri gets only muted grunts and deep sighs from Felix for every hard tug on his hair, Felix who has been so patient with him even as Dimitri’s fingers felt too large and unsteady for such a gentle task, and the sudden warm swell of his gratitude almost overwhelms him.
“Of course, Felix.” Dimitri smiles. “As you wish.” His vision blurs a little in the noon sun. His fingers are once again graced with the softness of Felix’s hair and he can only hope the knot he’s knotting is tight enough to hold. To have a friend like Felix is truly a precious and wondrous thing.
He must have said this last part out loud, and it must have been the wrong words to say, because Felix rounds on him so quickly it leaves the hair ribbon tangled in his fingers, dark strands of hair whipping angrily around Felix’s face like a cat caught in the rain.
“Do you hear him, Professor?” Felix hisses just like one, too.
The Professor appears around a corner of the stables and looks at the both of them impassively. “Use your words, Felix.”
Felix glares at the grass like it has also personally offended him, though Dimitri knows in this particular case, the grass has not. “We’re not friends, Dimitri.”
“Surely you cannot mean that.” Dimitri stares at the ribbon still in his hand. It shines silver like the great lions that grace the banners of Fhirdiad. He does not know what to do with it. He has not known the taste of things for so long and yet the ribbon’s scent lingers strong in his mouth as if he has eaten a meal of kings; and it smells like green pine, and Felix’s hair, and Felix’s skin, and Dimitri’s whole body aches with this bewildering knowledge.
“Wrong words,” the Professor says before walking away again. “Is there a worse rating than ‘good job’?”
“Please, Felix.” It feels like too much all at once. Badly done stitches that have fixed nothing; a crooked smile put on too quickly. Dimitri wants Felix to look at him, look him in the eye so he can know him in full, all the words he has no manner of speaking, but perhaps Dimitri is wrong, and it is still not something he is allowed to ask of him.
But maybe, maybe this: “Has too much happened that we cannot even be friends?”
“You misunderstand me, you fool.” Felix does look at him then, eyes piercing, as if he means for Dimitri to know of him, too.
But his gaze does not hold for long; his hair is a shadow flitting across his nose, across his mouth wrinkled into something that Dimitri thinks must surely be displeasure. Except, he has memory of Felix’s mouth turned like this, so like a smile given to him in fondness, and it feels like an unspeakable weakness to want nothing more than to reach out and tuck that hair behind Felix’s ear to see all of that mouth under the bright sun.
Felix takes the hair ribbon from Dimitri and rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine, we’re friends.” His undertunic lifts high as he pulls back the wayward strands of his hair. The long dangling ends of the silver ribbon should be ridiculous, but Dimitri can think of nothing that looks more lovely in Felix’s hair than his colours.
An expert flick of the wrist and Felix double knots the ribbon, sending a long thin scar low on his hip dipping deep under the waist of his breeches as he does so. Dimitri cannot help but track its movement, wondering where it ends. Where Felix got it. What it feels like.
“Ah.” Dimitri swallows once, twice. “I believe I understand, now.”
*
The note in the advice box reads:
There is an unnamed fool of a prince who does not understand. He keeps saying he wants to be BEST friends, except we’re already friends, and the answer to this had better not be something that sounds like it came from out of Sylvain’s filthy mouth.
“Hm,” the Professor writes back. “Have you considered that we are marching on Fort Merceus tomorrow?”
*
“And then, Felix refused to give me back my mitten, saying he needed a favour from the fairest in the kingdom to carry into battle. For a whole week, he trained against our instructor with a little grey woolen mitten perched on the point of his training sword, and none of the household dared to remove it least they wanted Felix to start crying again.”
Dimitri cannot help but smile as he eats another spoonful of the gratin. There is no taste to it still, but he remembers well that they had served it the day Felix had called him fairest and proudly took his colours, and somehow the soft cheese and odd mix of textures against his tongue is a delicious feast.
“Don’t you ever shut up?” Felix chews angrily.
Despite his protests, Felix has yet to refuse meals with him and the Professor whenever he is invited. He is sitting close enough that his elbow grazes Dimitri’s ribs every time he shifts on the chair, the unfortunate one with the wobbly leg that Annette had tripped over, and somehow this, this small thing, feels like what happiness must surely feel like. To be this close. To have this treasured friendship.
“What am I doing wrong?” the Professor mutters to themselves, looking between the two of them. There is something desperate in their voice.
And then, as if giving up, the Professor just looks at him. “Dimitri, continue. More embarrassing stories about Felix.”
Dimitri beams.
*
“Neither of you will last long. Figure it out before you faint.”
The door of the sauna slams shut behind the Professor with a very final thud. Steam hisses menacingly on the brazier. Another inscrutable thing, then: this must be a test of stamina to help them take on the mages that make Enbarr so dangerous, to withstand the heat of the southern reaches of Fódlan. Like the dexterity that comes with needlework; like the swiftness that comes with flying. The— the strength that comes with sharing a meal and fond childhood stories of someone so important to him.
But Dimitri already feels lightheaded too fast, and Felix has curled in on himself, not meeting his gaze, cheeks painted bright red. There’s only a white towel laid across his lap for his modesty, and it seems to be slipping.
“Your towel is slipping,” Dimitri says helpfully, his voice coming out shamefully rough. He does not stare at the firm muscle of Felix’s thighs. He is looking at the wood coals burning low. He is looking at his own hands in his lap, so large they seem to almost dwarf his towel. The heat is surely getting to him; he feels it pounding in his blood, boiling in his stomach, itching in the tip of his fingers, aching to touch.
And then: “Do you think the Professor remembers that we march for Enbarr in a day’s time?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Felix, if we’re to figure out this puzzle that the Professor has given us, we must.”
“I said, don’t talk to me.” Felix sounds delirious and Dimitri wonders if he should break down the door, though he knows the Professor would be disappointed. “There is nothing your mind could possibly could come up with right now that would be of benefit.”
Felix’s loose hair sticks damp and dark to his flushed cheeks. Sweat rolls down his naked shoulders, tracing the map of Thoron scars, and it is so alike the wild, fierce exertion that Felix wears in the midst of battle, and yet everything unlike it, and Felix is—
“You’re beautiful,” Dimitri breathes, and it feels like a wonder that has been bestowed upon him, to know this, and to say it.
“Merciful saints take me,” Felix mutters before they both faint onto the wooden floor.
*
“Have they always been like this?” The Professor pours a cup of bergamot tea and slides it toward Sylvain like a sacrifice.
“Ridiculous? Obtuse? Ridiculously obtuse? Promised themselves to each other since the age of seven? Unaware that the reason they can’t date each other is because they’ve been practically dating each other this entire time, breakups and all?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Faerghus, Professor. Don’t push it too hard. Just sit back and enjoy the dinner and a show.” Sylvain winks. “And thank you for the tea.”
*
The stars that guide them toward Enbarr are the same ones that hang over Fhirdiad, and if Dimitri was a more pious man, he would have something to say about them. Something holy, and illuminating, and comforting.
But here, on the ground in Fódlan, it is only the faintest of the Goddess’ starlight that reaches them, spilling on the hard packed dirt and cobblestones of the city, soon to be churned up with the blood of too many good men and women. It is a horrible and tragic thing. He wishes it were different, he wishes— and maybe there are, somewhere, the right words to say, but Dimitri does not know what they are. It will be different, should he be granted victory on the morrow. If nothing else, he will ensure that the shape of the world be kinder, that none be forgotten in the wake of its making.
You will not be forgotten. Dimitri knows better than to answer back now. Once upon a time, this would have also been the hour for ghosts, but every day he learns to turn his ear more readily to the living.
“It’s late. You should sleep. It’s going to be a hard battle tomorrow.”
Felix, oh Felix. Walking to the edge of the world with him, looking out into the dark by his side, even though he remembers an age when Felix was young enough to be scared of the night.
Still, gently, “You should take your rest, too.”
“Hmph. Then who will watch your back when you foolishly walk so close to the enemy lines in the middle of the night?”
“The Goddess, of course.” Dimitri smiles, waiting.
“That meddlesome Professor has long since gone to sleep—” Felix’s eyes go wide. “Did you just string me along into making a joke? Is this a joke?” A snort. A chuckle. Crossed arms. “It’s terrible. Save your wits for better things.”
He thinks he might love the way that Felix laughs. He thinks he might love a lot of things: dark hair, strong wrists, a heart too soft that could only ever try its best to understand his own.
“And what might those be, my friend?”
And Felix— Felix clumsily grabs for his hand, as if they are still children, running heedless through the green winter trees. Warm hand in warm hand. Once so sure of where they were meant to go together.
“Call me friend one more time, Dimitri.” Felix’s voice is soft and young, seeking for Dimitri as it once did.
It is as if the very stars that are here to guide them have instead seen fit to make their place inside of Dimitri’s chest; weightless, and infinite, and glowing. Pulling both their hearts home from wherever they might be. Has there ever been anything that has come so hard, so easily, so long in time and making? Dimitri curls his fingers around Felix’s hand and it is perfect work.
“My dearest friend.”
He lifts Felix’s hand to his mouth and feels the sweet shiver that greets the press of his lips against those knuckles laced through with thin white scars. Hard fought, hard won. His. “My dearest Felix.”
*
“Do they know what ‘friend’ actually means?”
The Professor adds more tea biscuits to the plate in front of Ingrid. It is a losing battle, but they understand now what Sylvain means when he says, watching Ingrid eat, it is as if there is something right and whole with the world.
Ingrid carefully sets down her teacup. The ring on her finger gleams like a promise in the noon sun.
“Do you mean like how me and Dorothea are friends?”