Archive of Our Own

“Our last night at home, and you’re all the way out here, Linny?”

Caspar’s voice is loud when it breaks through the still night air. It makes Linhardt jump, as though he’s been caught doing something bad, when really all he’s doing is sitting in the courtyard, by the fountain. He almost slips right into the water he’s been trailing his fingers through - in fact, he would slip entirely, if not for Caspar grabbing his sleeve, correcting his balance and pulling him upright so quickly his head spins. 

The party is for them. Well, for Linhardt, more specifically, but Caspar, being the good friend he is, has spent the night more or less glued to his side, successfully distracting grown-ups who want to pat Lin’s hair or pinch his cheeks. Both boys are sixteen, for the sake of the goddess, they’re hardly children like they were when most of these distant relatives and unfamiliar lords from far-off places last saw them. Linhardt has lost count already of how many have pointed out how tall he’s grown, how long his hair is, how pale he is, Linhardt, don’t you ever go outside? 
He wants to slap their hands away from his face, mostly. Don’t touch me, he’d snap, if he were more like Caspar, if he were unafraid to stand tall and glare and talk back. Don’t be so rough. 

The only person who’s allowed to touch him is Caspar himself. Because usually he’s pulling him out of the way of a curious hand, or some kind of danger. Or even just away from the risk of tumbling into icy cold and frankly filthy fountain water.

“What are you doing here?” Caspar’s voice brings him out of his daydream, and he has to think for a moment. What is he doing out here? There’s an unusual chill carried on the breeze and it’s not as though it’s quiet. The music from the ballroom can still be heard loud and clear, echoing off the walls and bouncing around his head. He should have gone to his room. Then, at least the door could be shut and the curtains drawn and his bed crawled into and slept in.

But if the music were shut out, Caspar would be too. 

“It was too loud, and too hot,” he decides is a good enough excuse. 
“And now you’re freezing, and your sleeve is wet.” Caspar plucks at Linhardt’s shirt sleeve, and oh, so it is, the silk damp and not as white as it perhaps should be.
Linhardt blinks at it. “I suppose I didn’t notice.”
“Linny… is everything alright?”

Is it? Linhardt isn’t quite sure. There are only a few hours left of the night, and everything he knows is about to change. When dawn breaks, he and Caspar will say goodbye to their families and climb into a carriage drawn by horses tacked up in Adrestian crimson and gold, and when they disembark, it will be at Garreg Mach. Their fathers decided it would be in the best interests of the Empire to enrol their sons in the Officers Academy, to have them trained by the highest calibre of tutors that Fódlan has to offer. 
Caspar has been excited from the moment they were called into Count Hevring’s office and informed. He’s wanted to be a part of the Empire’s war forces since he was six, and everyone says he could be a great warrior, or even a war master, given time and training and discipline.
Linhardt, on the other hand, would much rather stay at home with his books. The thought of battle makes him dizzy, and blood, sick. His father would be angry to hear it, and his mother disappointed, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more inclined to go. 

In a voice little more than a whisper, picking at his bitten nails with his eyes trained firmly on the ground beneath his feet, he tells Caspar so.

“I don’t want to leave.” His voice cracks like the old stone slab he stands on, the one he’s nervously scuffing the toes of his brand new shoes on. The shoes are too big - he was supposed to grow into them before tonight. He hasn’t quite managed to yet. “I want to stay, Cas. I’m afraid… of the journey, and of what lies at the end of it. I fear that we will go to war… why would they send us to learn to be soldiers, if there were not unrest brewing? I don’t want to go… I don’t want to fight. Yet they send us away to be taught to maim and kill.”

“Lin…” The word leaves Caspar in a sigh, and Linhardt’s breath leaves him in a gasp as Caspar wraps his arms right around his ribcage, a hug so crushing it makes it hard to inhale again. But it’s oddly comforting, to be reminded of Caspar’s strength. He’s been swinging axes and throwing punches for the best part of their lives. Caspar will keep him safe even if nobody else seems willing to. “We aren’t going to war. Okay? This is just a… a rite of passage, my father said so. All sons of Empire lords go to the academy. It’s a… a deterrent. Nobody would be stupid enough to attack lands defended by Garreg Mach’s graduates. They’re the best of the best. We’re going to be the best of the best. We’ll be okay!” He sounds so earnest that Linhardt can almost convince himself he believes him. “And besides-” he adds, stepping back so Linhardt can finally take a breath, and grabbing his hands instead “-I’ll be there. I’ll make sure you’re fine. I always do, don’t I?”
Linhardt laughs then, because most of the time, it’s the other way round - Caspar gets himself into scrapes and Linhardt picks up the pieces. Even now, he can feel Caspar’s hands in his, palms scratched up and grazed, and he whispers a healing spell under his breath. 
“I told you to stop doing that!” Caspar yelps, pulling away, but the spell is done and only glowing faith residue is left at Linhardt’s fingertips. “Wasting your magic on me. You’re gonna end up with hands like your mom’s and I’m gonna say I told you so. ”

Linhardt’s mother’s hands are scarred in silver and black, reminders of years of using white magic to help and heal those in need. They are thinner than they should be for hands of a wealthy woman her age, still holding on to her youthful beauty in all other ways. She covers them in white gloves up to the elbow and shakes her head when Linhardt asks if they pain her, though she struggles to sew and crochet the way she used to love, and sometimes needs help to lace her boots or clasp her jewellery. 

Linhardt bites his lip. Who will help her, while he’s away?

It’s like Caspar reads his mind. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything like that. Your dad hired that lady, remember? The special one to help her with her dresses and her bracelets, and make sure she doesn’t get hurt and I bet if you wrote her letters, she could get help to write back. Your mom’s gonna be just fine.”
“Of course she will.” If Linhardt swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, neither boy mentions it. 

Caspar comes close again. “Linny. Come on. We should go back inside… People will be looking for you. It’s your party.”
“It’s our party,” Linhardt corrects him. “We’re both going. They’re celebrating getting rid of both of us.” He manages a smile, to go with his joke.
Caspar pokes him in the ribs anyway. “No, they’re celebrating us being mature , obviously. And you’re out here sulking like a little kid and I’m with you, when we should be inside, dancing.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” Linhardt points out. “And inside, I have to dance with the girls…"
“Says who?” Caspar asks quietly. He’s holding Linhardt’s hand again. “You don’t have to dance with anyone. I could teach you.”
“No, you couldn’t.” Linhardt has spent the last year struggling with his newly acquired height. His limbs are too long, too awkward, like a fawn in the spring that’s barely able to stand, let alone run. “I’m useless.”
“Shut up.” Caspar frowns. “No, you’re not. And you can dance with me. If you want to.”
“Who says I want to?” Linhardt mumbles, trying to disguise how obvious it is that he truly, truly does. 
Caspar rolls his eyes. “I say so. Let me teach you. Garreg Mach hosts a lot of balls, I’m sure. You have to learn to dance eventually. Come here .”

He pulls Linhardt a little closer. “I can teach you, but you’re always going to be the taller one, no matter who you dance with. So you have to learn to take the lead, or to at least look like you’re leading. Put your hand on my shoulder.”
Linhardt does as he’s told, and tries not to stiffen when Caspar puts a hand on his waist. “I already hate this.”
“We haven’t even started yet!” Caspar is already laughing. “Look. I’m going to step back with my left foot, and you’re going to step forward, in with me. and then we swap, and we keep going in circles. Think about how your dad dances with your mom.”
“My parents don’t dance.”
“Then think about mine.”

Linhardt closes his eyes. He pictures Count and Countess von Bergliez, just inside the ballroom, spinning in time to the band that plays. He thinks perhaps that’s what love is. Knowing your partner’s movements like you know how to blink and breathe, anticipating each step, reciprocating it with a smile. It’s sort of like a perfectly balanced equation, each giving and taking the same and so, the formula produces the desired result. He tries that with Caspar. 

Caspar rolls his eyes. “You’re thinking too hard. I can hear your brain overheating from here.”
Linhardt whines low in his throat. “No you can’t. Stop it. I can’t help overthinking… I overthink everything. I mess it all up.”

“Lin. Stop it.” Caspar sighs and pulls away. “Sit down. ” 
Linhardt sits on the edge of the fountain once more. 
“Turn your head,” Caspar commands, pulling something out of his pocket that fits in the palm of his hand. “And sit still.”
Linhardt folds his hands in his lap, and when Caspar starts pulling his hair back from his shoulders, he fights not to flinch away. “What are you doing?”
“Stop talking. I have to concentrate.”
A long pause is punctuated only by Caspar softly swearing. When he’s done, he squeezes Linhardt’s shoulders. “Okay, done. Let’s see if letting your stupid panicky brain breathe helps.”

Linhardt leans over and peers into the water. Through the ripples, he can see his own face, pale and dark-eyed, gazing back at him. His hair is tied back, and he can see himself properly, which means other people can see him too…
He reaches up and touches the ponytail Caspar has made. Whatever it’s tied with, it feels silky under his touch. “Cas? Where did you… what?” For once, he’s almost completely lost for words.
“I was going to give you it when we got to the academy,” Caspar tells him, and when Linhardt looks back at him, he’s blushing, a dusting of pink across his cheeks and nose, even up to his ears. “I bought it for you. The lady at the market told me that white ribbons mean peace, and an opposition to violence, and I thought it might, you know. Protect you. If I ever can’t. Like a good luck charm.”
“A good luck charm,” Linhardt repeats, biting his lip. “A… Cas…” He blinks back sudden hot tears. “You got me a gift? To keep me safe?”
“Y-yeah! I mean, I’ll keep you safe at the monastery. I promise! And I promised your mom I’d keep you safe too!” Caspar blurts out. “But I wanted to be sure…”
“I know you will.” Linhardt’s voice is breaking again. “I know you will…” He buries his face in his hands. He is sixteen years old. Tomorrow, he becomes a man, and a man in the Empire is a soldier, and a soldier doesn’t cry. Don’t cry, he silently pleads with himself,  don’t cry. 

“Hey. Linny. Hey. Don’t cry.” 

Caspar is kneeling down by his feet, his new robes getting dusty as he gently pries Linhardt’s hands from his face so he has no choice but to look at him, at his bright hair and sky-coloured eyes. “Hey,” he says again, softer than Linhardt has maybe ever heard him speak before. “You don’t have to cry. You’re gonna be safe. I did all this dumb stuff to make sure you’re safe. You’re not allowed to doubt me!” He grins, but his eyes are a little bit wet too. “Come on. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Always, Caspar. Always.” He slides down to join his best friend on the ground, and this time when Caspar wraps his arms around him, it doesn’t feel like being crushed. It feels like a blanket, wrapped around his shoulders in front of a roaring fire. Caspar’s face is pressed to his shoulder and his hot breath leaves a warm spot on Linhardt’s collarbone where the top button of his shirt has somehow come undone. He finds it in him to hug Caspar back, and for a moment, they curl together in silence. They’re both shivering a little, and it’s not entirely from the cold. 

“Hey.” Caspar lifts his head, breaking the stillness between them. A lock of Linhardt’s hair has already come loose - it appears that the ribbon needs a little work. Caspar just tucks the stray curl behind Linhardt’s ear. “Want to try dancing again? It’s just… it’s like you said before. It’s our party. And I think if it’s ours, we can dance with whoever we please.”
Linhardt nods. “I’d like that,” he whispers, and rises to his feet with Caspar still held tight. It feels easier now, to bring a hand to his shoulder, and step closer to him. The music inside has increased in speed, in intensity, but he finds he doesn’t really mind.
“Step in, step out, switch, and repeat,” Caspar reminds him gently, and they somehow do just that.

They don’t dance like the Bergliezes. Nor do they dance like the Hevrings used to in Linhardt’s cloudy childhood memories, before Linhardt’s mother’s hands became too weak for the strong grip of her husband’s. Instead, they spin, and if they trip, neither cares at all. Caspar stumbles on a raised corner of the path, into Linhardt’s chest. It sends him backwards a step or too, but still he keeps him there until the music crescendos and stops.
“You have to let go,” Caspar whispers into Linhardt’s collar, when he forgets to. Released by his blushing friend, he steps back and sweeps into a bow. “You bow too,” he hisses, which Linhardt hurriedly does, only to peek back, giggling, when the music starts again.
“Caspar…” Linhardt mumbles, biting his lip as he straightens up. “Might you do me the honour of a second dance?”
Caspar beams. “Why, of course, Linhardt.” He allows himself to be taken into the taller boy’s arms again.

It feels natural to Linhardt now, to rest his hand on Caspar’s shoulder. It’s all rather close, and something inside him loosens up a little, so that when the urge strikes him to touch his friend’s face, he gives into it. He cups Caspar’s hot cheek in his palm, and runs his thumb across a sharp cheekbone. It’s as though Caspar’s face grows that little older every day, childish roundness melting off, giving way to angles and muscle and a stronger jawline. 
“Wrong place, Linny,” Caspar murmurs, looking up at him. 
“I know,” Linhardt replies softly, tugging Caspar by the hand until they’re toe to toe once more. “Perhaps right for something else, though.”

It’s no surprise to either that what follows is a kiss.