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Dedue woke up in the middle of Gronder Field and found himself alone. He sat up slowly as he regained consciousness, his muscles aching. The Alliance troops had showed up out of nowhere, and someone had knocked him out during the battle, and -- where was Dimitri?
"Your Highness?" Dedue tried, getting to his feet with enormous effort. His chest heaved as he put a hand to his head and winced at the wound he felt there. No doubt this was the reason he'd been knocked unconscious.
The last thing he remembered before passing out was Dimitri, kneeling next to him and grasping at his hand, eyes wild and stormy.
"We can't let her get away!" Dimitri had shouted. "Please, my friend, get up..."
"Your Highness," Dedue had managed, trying to get up, to do what Dimitri asked of him, but had found his head falling back onto the ground instead, his vision flickering black. Dimitri had growled and let go of Dedue's hand to give chase to the retreating Empire forces as they disappeared into the forest.
That was the last thing he remembered. If he was to find Dimitri anywhere, the forest was the first place to look.
Bodies lined the path into the forest as Dedue slowly made his way through, their lifeless forms strewn around his feet. Some had died with their eyes open. They stared blankly up at him. Dedue had seen plenty of death by now, felt desensitized to it, but being so close to the empty faces of comrades and enemies alike made his tongue grow heavy in his mouth.
There was an expanding feeling of foreboding in his chest as he followed the path deeper into the forest and found nothing but death, death, death. Dedue could hardly breathe as he picked his way through the underbrush, tightening his grip on the handle of his axe. As he searched the trees he noticed something strange, the faint glow of something nestled beneath a bush.
Dedue walked over to brush aside the leaves and felt his breath catch in his throat. Lying discarded beneath the bush was Dimitri’s lance, the Blaiddyd family Relic. It pulsed slowly with a dull glow, as though bereft without its wielder.
Dimitri would never let go of his lance, unless --
Dedue began to move with renewed vigor, a kind of desperation tearing at his heart -- desperation to find Dimitri, to confirm or deny what he feared. The thing he had sworn to shield Dimitri from, the fate that Dedue had been willing to dedicate his entire life to prevent. The most unthinkable thing.
He pushed into a clearing to find more bodies, bodies, trampled and empty. Dedue’s eyes roamed the scene, finding Empire soldiers, Kingdom soldiers, and finally -- oh.
Dimitri, lying motionless among the fallen men, face and chest bloodied and bruised.
Dedue’s heart sank at the confirmation of what he had already suspected, had prayed would not come to pass. He fell to his knees and took Dimitri into his arms, feeling nauseous at the discovery of how light he was, how fragile he felt in his death. Dimitri's golden head lolled against his chest, eyes shut tight. If not for the blood trickling from Dimitri’s temple, Dedue could almost believe he was asleep.
“Dimitri,” Dedue said quietly, addressed his prince by name for the first and final time.
He did not cry. Dedue had not cried since the Tragedy.
Whenever a member of the royal family died, it was customary for there to be a funeral procession through Fhirdiad, with the flower-lined casket carried by the royal guard from the gates to the castle. The people of the Kingdom would line the streets to pay respects to the deceased.
There was no funeral procession for Dimitri. Instead of the royal burial grounds, Dimitri found his final resting place in a shallow ditch in Empire territory. The last child of Blaiddyd, laid to rest in a land far from home with his lance over his chest. Dedue heaped dirt over his body, heart straining at his chest as he covered Dimitri’s face. He wanted desperately to reach out and touch his cheek, but he stopped himself. He knew that if he didn’t let go of Dimitri now, he might never be able to.
It wasn't quite the burial that a prince of Faerghus deserved, but Dedue did his best. He had, after all, vowed to serve Dimitri until the very end.
Even the birds had stopped singing. Dedue bowed his head and knelt by the fresh patch of dirt, resolving to stand vigil until the sun dipped below the treeline. He owed Dimitri that much.
Dimitri had died alone in Gronder Field, tired and angry and weary of the world, his body trampled into the dirt beneath the boots of men who would never be half as great as him. As the silence of the forest sank into Dedue’s bones and the sky began to dim, he began to wonder if perhaps all the anger and resentment Dimitri had left behind was now his burden to bear.
It frightened him. That rage had warped Dimitri, had made him cruel and cold, untrusting of those closest to him, single-minded in his pursuit of revenge. A long time ago Dedue had vowed to stand by Dimitri forever, to act as his sword and shield until he breathed his last. Not once had he come close to breaking that vow, but Dedue would be lying if he said his will had never faltered these past five years.
He knew what anger could do to a man, how it could distort the soul. Dedue had spent his life taming his temper, biting his tongue when slighted, learning to remain silent in the face of insults and mockery. With Dimitri gone, it simmered beneath his skin now, all the hurt and the pain of years in exile, living in anticipation of a revenge that would now never come.
Dedue picked up his axe and stood as the sky finally darkened.
“Goodbye, your Highness,” he said solemnly. “I will see the Emperor dead. I promise you this.”
. . .
Dedue kept his promise. He was good at keeping his promises.
Swish -- there was a quick, decisive motion of the blade and the leader of the Adrestian Empire crumpled at the foot of her throne, axe clattering to the floor beside her limp body. Dedue watched from the shadows as Claude approached, a grim expression on his face as he looked down at the Emperor’s lifeless form. Claude lifted a hand to gently rest on the Professor's shoulder, his lips moving. Dedue couldn't hear the words that he murmured, but he watched as the Professor nodded in response, swiping what seemed like tears away from their eyes as they turned their back on the body lying at their feet.
Dedue clenched his jaw as he watched the Professor go. He spared one final glance at the small body they left behind, draped in red and lying motionless on the floor. For a fleeting moment he thought of Dimitri, terrifyingly mortal in his death -- not a prince, not a king. Just a man.
The reminder of Dimitri made Dedue jerk his head away again, pressing his lips together tightly. He turned towards the side door of the castle through which he had entered, picking his axe up.
He hadn’t expected it to feel so hollow. He’d expected -- well. He wasn’t sure. Something more. Something certain, a kind of closure -- the satisfaction that Dimitri was resting easy in the knowledge that his final wish had been realized. Instead all Dedue felt was empty, and terribly alone.
“Hey.”
The voice behind him startled him and he turned back quickly to see Claude standing there, his bow hanging loosely at his side. It had been an age since Dedue had seen Claude up close. He looked tired, and his face was much older than Dedue remembered. There was a solemnity about him that hadn’t been there before, the kind of seriousness that came with great responsibility. The two of them had barely spoken during their time at Garreg Mach, only ever exchanging passing remarks, but Dedue had always thought Claude a comforting presence, had often watched him entertain classmates across the dining hall. Dimitri usually spoke highly of him.
“Duke Riegan,” Dedue said steadily. Claude sighed.
“I’m not much for titles,” he said, voice faraway. “Just Claude, please. Like when we were at the monastery.”
Dedue nodded in understanding. “Claude.”
“Thank you for everything,” Claude said. “I was wondering where you disappeared to after Gronder. I feared you might be dead.”
Dedue frowned, confused by the revelation that Claude had even spared him a thought after the battle. “Why would you fear that?”
“Why, because I like you, of course,” Claude offered, some of that good humor and charm shining through as he smiled an easy smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve lost far too many friends in this war already. I didn’t want to lose another.”
“We are not friends,” Dedue said flatly.
“Maybe not by your standards,” Claude replied, shaking his head. “I’m… I was sorry to hear about Dimitri. He was a good man. Or, well, he could’ve been.”
“Thank you,” Dedue said, swallowing. He wondered when he had become the one to whom people brought their condolences for Dimitri’s death. He supposed Dimitri had no other family to speak of now.
Claude put his hands on his hips. “So that’s it, huh? You sneak into Enbarr and help us defeat Edel -- the Emperor, and now you’re just going to leave?”
“Well,” Dedue said. “Yes. My mission is complete. I have nothing more to do here.”
Claude studied his face for a long moment, saying nothing. Dedue stared back, waiting for him to say something else and feeling a little odd under such scrutiny. When it seemed that no more words would come he took a step back towards the door, turning away slowly. He didn’t know where he was going, only that there was no place for him here anymore -- or anywhere.
“Best of luck, Claude…”
“Wait.”
Suddenly there was a hand catching him by the arm. Dedue looked down to see Claude’s fingers curled around his wrist, felt the insistence of his grip even through the heavy armor. He recoiled instinctively, jerking his hand away, unused to the feeling of being touched in a way that was not rooted in hostility. Claude let go quickly but stepped closer still -- determined to make Dedue listen, apparently.
“You know, the war is over,” Claude said, far more conversationally than he had any right to. “More or less, anyway. When the time comes for us to rebuild Duscur… I’d like you to be there.”
Dedue’s lips parted slightly in disbelief as he stared back at Claude. Rebuild Duscur? The very idea of the restoration of his homeland had died with Dimitri -- so he had thought.
Claude looked amused by his expression. “Haven’t you heard? The time has come for us to shape the world as we see fit. The world that I’d like to create is one where Duscur is allowed to thrive again, untouched by the prejudice and oppression that has stifled it all this time.”
“So it’s true,” Dedue said slowly, still puzzling it out in his head. “You intend to lead Fódlan once the unification is complete.”
“Oh, Seiros, no,” Claude said, letting out a laugh. “No, I’ve got bigger plans.”
“Which are?”
Claude faltered for a moment, his eyes flickering away briefly -- strange, given the conviction with which he usually carried himself. There was something he still kept hidden, a hand he was still unwilling to show. Dedue raised a questioning eyebrow. The silent remark hung in the air between them.
If you want me to trust you, you’re going to have to trust me.
Claude looked thoughtfully back at him. He seemed to understand, and nodded once in response, nearly imperceptibly. An affirmation.
“Few people know this, but I do have some claim to the Almyran throne, on my father’s side,” he said, lowering his voice. “I intend to leave Fódlan to someone else -- the Professor, perhaps. I’ve done all I can here. It’s time for me to impact change in my homeland.”
“Oh,” Dedue said. “And where do I fit into your bigger plans?”
It made sense, he thought, even if he’d never considered it before. Claude had always seemed bigger than Fódlan, like his eyes had always been set on a goal that the Alliance’s borders would never be able to contain. Dedue knew exactly what it was to feel incongruous, to yearn for a home that existed in another land, a home that you didn’t know if you could even go back to. They were both searching for belonging somewhere. With Dimitri gone now, Dedue didn’t know if he would ever find it in Fódlan.
“I want you to help me establish foreign relations in Fódlan and Almyra,” Claude said. “With Duscur, yes, but others as well -- like Brigid, Dagda, Sreng... nations that have been shaken by Fódlan’s insistence on exerting its influence where it has no business doing so. I want to break down the barriers that separate them from each other. I want to set them free.”
Dedue furrowed his brow. Everything Claude was talking about, all these grand plans he had laid out for the future -- they seemed far-reaching to the point of being absurd, ambitious to a fault, much like Claude himself. But he also knew that Claude never did anything without thinking five steps ahead, which meant that these plans had accounted for Dedue all along. He didn’t quite know what to make of that.
“I don’t know why you want me for this,” he said. “Diplomatic relations and negotiations aren’t exactly my strong suit.”
“You were Dimitri’s retainer,” Claude said. “You, a man of Duscur, remained closest to the late crown prince of Faerghus right until the end. People will listen to what you have to say. And more than that, I know you to be capable, patient, dependable -- all the things I’m still working on. I couldn’t ask for a better person to walk alongside.”
He smiled then, warm, a smile that did reach his eyes this time, and his face looked younger for it. Dedue was struck by how the cold sunlight streaming through the castle windows illuminated his features. Their different stations in life seemed so far away now, rendered meaningless by the light in Claude’s eyes.
“I need you to help me with this,” Claude said. He extended his hand. “Will you, Dedue?”
He said Dedue’s name with such sincerity. Nobody said Dedue’s name like that.
Dedue weighed his options. He’d been so prepared to flee once he saw the Empire toppled, prepared to confront the fact that he now had nothing to go back to, with Duscur still in ruins and Dimitri gone. The sheer loneliness of that prospect was almost overwhelming in its enormity. And then here was Claude, looking at him with the kindest and most hopeful expression on his face, holding his hand out in welcome.
“Yes,” Dedue said finally, and tentatively shook Claude’s hand, felt the roughness of his palm against his own as Claude beamed, looking as beautiful a man as Dedue had ever seen.
These five years Dedue had done nothing but fight. He was ready to heal instead of hurt, to use his hands to build instead of destroy. Fighting had only brought him loss, in the end -- the very kind he’d been running from all this time.
. . .
Almyra was hot. Duscur had been, too, but after so many years spent acclimating to the frigid temperatures of Faerghus, Dedue found himself suddenly unused to a warmer climate. He wiped at the sweat forming on his forehead as he and Claude weaved through the streets of the capital city, secretly glad that he’d been convinced to shed his heavy armor for once before they arrived at the gates.
“Take that stuff off, you’ll give yourself heatstroke,” Claude had said, laughing and swatting at Dedue’s hands as he began to put his chestplate on.
“But what if you are in danger?”
“You’re not my retainer,” Claude had replied firmly. “And, besides, I’m more than capable of protecting myself.”
Dedue was still getting used to that part. He’d served a lord for much of his life. To be seen and introduced as an equal by one was still foreign to him.
He was attracting attention as they walked, but that wasn’t anything new. The glances he got here were different than the ones he typically received in Fhirdiad, though -- curious, rather than cruel. An Almyran merchant nodded kindly as him as they passed his stall. It was odd to feel welcomed in a land that was not his own, in a land he had not even chosen.
They stopped before the castle in the heart of the city. Dedue admired its architecture, all curves and slopes, nothing like the foreboding towers and parapets of the castles in Faerghus. Claude nudged him with his shoulder, grinning widely.
“Beautiful, right?”
“Quite,” Dedue agreed.
They entered the castle with very little resistance. As they walked in Claude nodded at the guards, who nodded back and parted readily to allow him access. Later, Dedue would recognize that this had been, in hindsight, a clear sign of what was to come, but in the moment he thought little of it, his attention otherwise occupied as he marvelled at the columns that lined the inside of the building. Claude just had a way of getting people to trust him, after all.
“What do you think?” Claude asked at his side as they made their way towards the throne room.
“It’s wonderful,” Dedue said, and meant it. “All of it. It’s so unlike anything in Fódlan.”
“My friend,” Claude said, chuckling. “You’ll soon find that everything everywhere is unlike anything in Fódlan.”
The Almyran king looked pleased to see them as the doors to the throne room opened. He was draped in golden robes not unlike those that Claude wore, a cloth wrapped around his head being the only thing that kept his unruly hair from falling in his eyes. He stood and opened his arms, a warm smile coming across his bearded face.
“Welcome!” he proclaimed, stepping down to meet them. “Or, welcome back, I should say.”
“Your Majesty,” Dedue said, dropping into a deep bow.
“Hey, Dad,” Claude said at the same time.
… Dad?
Dedue straightened up again, forgetting his etiquette in the surprise as he turned to Claude, who looked like he was trying very hard to avoid eye contact all of a sudden.
“Claude,” Dedue said. “I thought you said you had some claim to the Almyran throne.”
“Oh,” Claude said, sounding a tad sheepish. “Yeah, I suppose I did say that.”
“Seems like you have a lot to me.”
“I might,” Claude responded, and the tone of his voice made Dedue smile even in his disbelief. Claude cast him a sideways glance, his shoulders relaxing as he found that Dedue wasn’t truly upset with him.
“Forgive me for that tiny understatement?”
“Of course,” Dedue said, shrugging. “Your Highness.”
He couldn’t contain his quiet laughter amid Claude’s exasperated protests. It felt strange to be able to laugh again. Strange, yes, but good, too, in a way that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.
. . .
Luckily, Dedue was used to dealing with princes. Often he found it funny that in another land, another life, Claude had already been crowned leader of a nation, had become renowned as a strategist and tactician, had spent five years putting an end to a bloody and unrelenting war.
All this had happened outside of Almyra. Here, Claude was just the crown prince again -- pretty to look at, but not expected to do much else. Dedue suspected that Claude would quite literally go mad if not presented with things to do, and certainly he kept himself busy, spending his days inserting himself into his father’s political meetings and building good favor with ambassadors around the city. He kept Dedue at his side in all of these endeavors, often turned to him for advice when it came to matters of foreign affairs. Dedue was, Claude asserted, an always-welcome reminder of the time he had spent in Fódlan, as well as a trusted adviser and friend.
“The only one I have left,” Claude would say, more cheerfully than he should.
Dedue found it difficult to wrap his head around, but he had grown to think of Claude as a good friend, too. It was still foreign to him, the idea of being friends with someone whose status was so much higher than his own. Right until the end that had been an insurmountable barrier between Dimitri and himself, one that he regretted not crossing now.
Still. Claude was his friend. The words got stuck in his throat every time he tried to articulate it, tried to mention how grateful he was that Claude had placed his faith in him, had brought him to his home and shown him nothing but kindness. He’d never been good at that sort of thing.
He dwelled on these thoughts frequently, though not while Claude was tending to his royal duties; rather, they usually surfaced when the two of them were alone. Claude worked incessantly, even in the evening hours, but he said that he enjoyed Dedue’s company as he worked, silent though it was. Dedue took to reading in Claude’s quarters in the evenings, sitting quietly in an armchair as Claude sprawled on his bed, papers fanned out across the sheets and brow furrowed deeply. Often Dedue’s eyes would stray from the pages and wander instead to Claude, who was always so absorbed in his work that he scarcely noticed.
Dedue didn’t think he would ever tire of looking at Claude. There was the obvious -- he was handsome, of course, and his hair was perpetually swept back in a most charming manner. Anyone who spared him a glance could tell you that. More than that, though, Dedue noticed that during these quiet in-between moments, Claude was never guarded, as Dimitri had been -- his face was always open, always sincere. It was the face of a man you knew you wouldn’t regret placing your trust in. Looking at Claude reminded Dedue that he could change the world.
Several months passed in this way. Dedue became accustomed to living in Almyra -- not just the weather, but the people, too. He was good at adapting to his surroundings at the worst of times, but Almyra (and Claude) made it easy. As time passed he could feel the guard he had kept up so carefully all these years slowly eroding. In Faerghus he’d learned to always be wary, to keep his head down and his shoulders hunched to avoid attracting attention, or being seen as a threat. Here people seemed not to care about his background, only ever approaching him to inquire about the royal emblem of Blaiddyd that he still wore on his chest.
He enjoyed strolling through the marketplace most of all, liked the hustle and bustle of the ever-shifting sea of people, found the colorful awnings and decorations draped over the stalls pleasing to look at. It felt alive there, reminded him that even with all the death and destruction and decay he had borne witness to in the last few years, there was still life and beauty.
On one such day as he perused the market, running his fingers through beaded chains and idly thinking of whether they would look good around Claude’s neck, something familiar caught his eye. It was a stall he didn’t think he’d ever seen before, nestled between a fruit stall and a jewel merchant, a little nondescript, easy to overlook -- but Dedue became fixated on the embroidered quilt that hung there, the stitching and the patterns so familiar to him that he would know them by touch if he had to.
He returned the beads to the seller and hastily made his way over to the other stall, heart beginning to pound. It had been ten years since he’d last seen any remnant of his home, any concrete reminder that it had really existed -- sometimes, on the worst days, he even found himself doubting his own memory --
A face emerged from the stall as he stopped in front of it, his heart in his throat. It was an older woman who looked back at him. One of her eyelids drooped, and she wore a headscarf of deep blue, not unlike the scarf Dedue had always worn back in Faerghus. Her good eye widened in the same wonderment that he felt as she regarded him.
“Hello,” she said, in the common tongue. Tentative. Testing the waters. “Can I help you?”
Dedue gazed at her, trying to figure out what he could say. He’d given up on meeting anyone like him a long time ago, had accepted that he was one of the last survivors of a land long gone. Yet here was a woman, so like him that it nearly overwhelmed him, her eyes the same as his own.
The words would not come. Instead he extended both his hands, his palms turned upwards, and bowed his head. It was a Duscurian gesture, respect as well as reconciliation, a greeting, a welcome.
He heard a quiet, disbelieving laugh, felt the woman place her palms atop his, felt her fingers wrap around his hands. He looked up to see her smiling at him, smiling so wide that it seemed too big for her face. Dedue couldn’t help but smile back as they grasped each other’s hands, finding understanding, finding each other. His heart felt full for the first time since Dimitri had passed.
The woman’s name was Aysha. She insisted that Dedue come behind the stall and sit in the shade, pouring out two cups of Duscurian spiced tea and chattering excitedly all the while. She had been a refugee after the invasion of Duscur, she said, had lost her husband in the chaos and fled to Almyra with her two young daughters. They’d made a life here, with her daughters sixteen and seventeen now, and working on their own. Dedue stumbled over some of his words as they conversed, not having spoken Duscurian since leaving, but the language returned to him quickly, with the familiarity of an old friend, and soon it felt as natural in his mouth as it always had when he was younger.
“Do you know of any others like us?” he asked, the tea smooth and fragrant as he sipped it.
Aysha shook her head. “No. You are the first that I’ve seen.”
She was interested to know about how he’d come to Almyra, too, gaped at him in disbelief when he told her that he had served the royal family of Faerghus for many years before coming here to act as a diplomat and an adviser to the newly-returned prince. Dedue stayed until the sun began to dim, feeling more content than he had in an age. Aysha sent him off with a basket of Duscurian flatbread and a few packets of spices as he left, insisting that he return sometime soon so she could introduce him to her daughters, as they would surely enjoy hearing of his adventures in Fódlan.
“I hope to one day see Duscur restored to what it was,” she said, patting his hand fondly and smiling up at him. “I should like to bring my daughters home.”
“I do, too,” Dedue said, smiling back, and promised to bring the prince over for dinner sometime.
. . .
Gardening was mostly agricultural in Almyra, with the emphasis on function over form as it was difficult enough to cultivate plants that would grow well in the dry heat. Dedue enjoyed taking part in it regardless, working in the royal gardens quite cheerfully whenever he was needed, but he missed seeing colorful buds burst from the ground as he tended to them, a sight that had been a great comfort to him for many years.
He awoke one morning to an insistent knocking on his bedroom door. He opened it to find Claude standing before him, hastily dressed and grinning broadly.
“I’ve got something to show you,” was all he said, looking proud, and refused to elaborate when Dedue tried to prod him for more information.
Claude led him through the courtyard to a door that opened to the back of the castle, beaming all the while. Dedue was prepared to ask once more what was so important that it warranted waking him up in the early hours of the morning, but as he was ushered through the door and saw what Claude had brought him here to see, the words died on his tongue.
A greenhouse, much like the one they’d had at Garreg Mach, sitting half in shade and half in sunlight. There were flowers painted haphazardly across the glass, messy and indistinguishable, probably painted by Claude himself. Still, to Dedue, they were more beautiful than flowers out of any painting hung on the castle walls in Fhirdiad.
“Claude,” Dedue said, and couldn’t find anything to say past that as he stared at the greenhouse in surprise.
“I know how much you missed growing flowers,” Claude said, a smile in his voice. “I had my men work on this for you. Consider it thanks for everything you’ve done for me. And don’t say that you don’t deserve it, because you know -- you’ve been... you’re important to me.”
There was a seriousness in his tone now that made Dedue turn to him, and he almost wanted to shy away under the intensity of Claude’s gaze. There was nobody in the world who looked at him the way Claude looked at him, nobody who made him feel so seen. That was another one of his talents -- making you feel seen.
“Thank you, Claude,” Dedue said, and tried to summon some of that blistering honesty that Claude was so good at, to articulate just a fraction of all that he felt. “When we met in Enbarr I was… lost. I had resigned myself to being lost. With you I feel as though I belong somewhere. Here.”
Claude’s dark eyes were warm, twinkling in the morning light. He reached out for Dedue slowly, touched Dedue’s hand hesitantly, questioning -- Is this okay?
Dedue looked back at him and nodded, absentmindedly slotted his fingers between Claude’s. It felt comfortable to him now. Familiar. Touching Claude felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“I feel as though you belong here, too,” Claude said, and his voice was different now, ringing with a tenderness that Dedue was sure he didn’t deserve. “By my side.”
He took a step closer, tilting his head up to search Dedue’s face. “I hope you’ll stay by my side for a long time to come. Will you, Dedue?”
Such sincerity. The way he said Dedue’s name, still, was like nothing else.
“Yes,” Dedue said, his voice low, and brought his other hand up to gently brush his fingers against Claude’s jaw, feeling an odd swoop of satisfaction in his stomach at the way Claude exhaled at his touch, at the smile that spread across his face.
“I’m glad,” Claude said softly, and lifted himself up on his tiptoes to press his lips to Dedue’s cheek.
Dedue forgot himself then, feeling dizzy with affection, forgot all sense of propriety and that anyone could very easily come out and see them. He turned his head as Claude was pulling back, slid his hand up to cup Claude’s face, and bent to kiss Claude on the mouth. He could feel Claude laughing against him, a little breathless, a little in disbelief, felt Claude’s arms wrap around his shoulders.
They didn’t get much work done that day -- Claude admitted that he had been working quite hard, and perhaps a day off was overdue. They spent the morning plotting out what would go where in the new greenhouse. Sometimes Dedue caught Claude looking at him and smiling to himself, and he treasured those little moments more than ever.
. . .
At age fifteen, Dedue watched his home burn down. He’d stood and watched, paralyzed with terror and suffocated by grief, as the only home he’d ever known was reduced to ash. The young blonde prince had tugged at his hand -- just a boy, like him, urging him to come away. Dedue had found himself unable to move, his eyes fixed on the charred remains of the house where he’d grown up.
It was ten years later that Dedue finally returned to his homeland. It was a different prince at his side this time, trudging a short distance behind him and complaining intermittently about the mud clinging to his boots.
“It’s farmland,” was Dedue’s explanation. “You’re just going to have to get used to that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Claude sighed, jogging forward to loop his arm through Dedue’s. “And Dedue?”
“Hm?”
“I’d get my boots dirty a thousand times over for you.”
Dedue shook his head in mock exasperation, smiling, as Claude chuckled to himself.
There was a gentle breeze sweeping over the fields as they climbed the hill that separated the village where Dedue had grown up from the meadows. Dedue’s breath caught in his throat at the sight before them as they stopped at the top of the hill.
It was still a ruin, all the buildings torn down or burnt to a crisp, barren and empty -- but everywhere, sprouting through the dirt, growing through the cracks of the foundations, there were flowers. Hundreds of flowers of every color imaginable, swaying slightly in the breeze. Beauty and color among the destruction.
Before he knew it Dedue was letting go of Claude and running down the hill. He felt impulsive, like he was a child again, in a time when he had felt like he could run and run and never stop running. When the world had seemed limitless, the horizon unending. He slowed in front of the building that had once been his home, walked through the blackened remains of the doorframe and sank to his knees amidst the flowers that sprouted there, pushing through the cinders. Dedue brushed aside the ash, watched it dissipate in the air, ran his fingers gently over the petals, purple and white and pale blue.
He could almost feel the ghosts of the people who had once lived here -- his mother, his sister, his grandmother. They were gone now, but still there was life here, against all odds. Still there was him.
Claude was behind him then, his presence solid and quiet. He put a hand on Dedue’s shoulder, crouching beside him.
Suddenly there was a wetness pricking at Dedue’s eyes. It came so unexpectedly, the emotion crashing over him like a wave all at once, that he hardly noticed at first. Claude reached out to wrap his arm around Dedue’s shoulders as Dedue lowered his head and finally, for the first time since he had left this place, allowed himself to cry. For his family, for Dimitri, for all the things he’d done. His heart had never felt so open, so exposed.
“They’re beautiful,” Claude said, gentle.
“Yes,” Dedue managed to say, and his voice was low, thick with emotion. “They are.”