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“A ball?” Annette and Mercie gasp in perfect tandem. Next to Sylvain, Ingrid makes a barely audible pained sound.
He stifles a laugh into his hand at her discomfort as the Professor continues as if the interruptions have not occurred.
“In three weeks. Attendance is not mandatory, but is advised for the notoriety of our House, or so I’m informed. The week preceding that will be the White Hero Cup, in which one representative of this house will compete in,” she says, with a small flicker of emotion.
Annette squeaks in the front with glee, and Mercie looks equally as pleased. Ingrid makes another pained noise and Felix his other side looks as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of burdock root.
“Dimitri, the house leaders will commence the ball with a first dance. You are required to begin the festivities,” the Professor finishes.
At the front of the class, Dimitri’s quill snaps. Felix snorts until Byleth looks straight at him, and he turns away. Ingrid exchanges a worried glance with Sylvain.
Class ends swiftly after that, with Ingrid and Sylvain milling around at the back of the room, an unspoken decision to wait for Dimitri. Felix looks between them then sighs heavily, standing away but also with them, once again reminding Sylvain of a cat who wants company but not to look like it.
“Ingrid, we need to prepare for the ball! You should come into town with us,” Mercie calls as she and Annette walk by.
“What?” Ingrid says, pure fear in her tone. Sylvain has to cover a smile.
“Yes! There is a shop I walked by yesterday with the most amazing gowns! Ingrid, I know you’ll find a fantastic outfit there,” Annette says with her usual sparkle of enthusiasm, linking her arm in Ingrid’s own.
“Gown?” she says faintly, and Sylvain assumes it’s the absolute shock that causes her to be led away, Merice and Annette bracketing her between them with no chance of escape.
Felix shakes his head in disdain, but balks when the Professor calls to him.
“Felix, may I speak with you a moment?” she says, voice echoing.
Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Did you fail another test?” he says, which earns him a narrowly avoided elbow in the stomach which he rightly deserves.
He notices Felix stiffen a little, as if bracing for battle, spine straight and shoulders tense as he simply walks the length of her room to her desk. Odd. But there’s no time to think on it more as Dimitri finally makes his way to the door.
He sighs heavily as Sylvain beams at him. Sylvain would be offended, except he’s been around Dimitri for so many years he’s learned to take his grudging acceptance in his stride.
“Dancing,” Sylvain says, and Dimitri’s face falls in that way which makes all those who know him cave instantly, but again, years of practice ensures Sylvain can steel himself.
“Yes. Dancing. As Heir Apparent, I have of course had many lessons as you well know,” Dimitri states, quickening his pace, as if that can actually shake Sylvain off. He matches him easily, barely breaking his stride.
“I do. And have you improved at all since that last time I saw you dance?” he asks, and Dimitri inhales before stopping and turning to him slowly.
“I am a perfectly adequate dancer,” he states.
“Of course, you only knocked over one relic suit of armour, broke Ingrid’s toe when you stepped on her feet, kicked a hole in a wall in frustration, tripped—”
“Sylvain. You’ve made your point,” Dimitri says sharply, and Sylvain catches himself at the tone, the one of command that reiterates he is their future King. Even if Sylvain has seen him attempt to dance, fall on his face, and lose a tooth when he was seven.
But Dimitri softens quickly, sending him an almost apologetic glance for the action.
“I believe I shall be fine. Perhaps some practice is in order though,” he says, hand coming up to his chin in a practiced motion of contemplation.
“I can help,” Sylvain says, without hesitation, and finds he genuinely means it, even if the sentiment occurred without thought.
Dimitri tilts his head. “Sylvain, last time I followed your advice, it didn’t end well.”
Sylvan rolls his eyes. “We talked about this—you cannot start declaring things to people and not expect them to treat it as a proposal. Compliments, not marriage, You Highness!” he says.
“I wasn’t— it was a compliment, I—fine. You did help me smooth over the situation. What do you propose?” Dimitri says, and Sylvain is a little impressed that he's given in so easily.
“Well, I am the best dancer in the school—”
“That is clearly Dorothea,” Dimitri interrupts and Sylvain pauses.
“The best in our house-”
“Annette is extremely skilled and surprisingly, Felix—”
“Do you want to ask Felix to teach you to dance?” Sylvain says and Dimitri pales.
“No, that is… no. I suppose you shall suffice,” he says and Sylvain wonders exactly why he’s so invested in this when there is such blatant contempt for his skills.
“Well, get ready Your Highness. I’ll make sure you are the star of the ball,” he says with a wink, while Dimitri looks on with doubt.
Such contempt. His friends really should have more faith in him.
“You offered to do what?” Felix manages between slashes of his sword against the training dummy.
Ingrid spins, lance in hand, taking him in with that measured look of faint disapproval which he knows so well. Technically, he came here to train. But Felix is two seconds from decapitating the dummy and Ingrid is about to go flying so he’s sort of lingering. Thinking about training, watching Felix train, it’s 80% there.
“Teach his Highness to dance,” Sylvain repeats.
Felix strikes once at the dummy, sword cleaving through its neck, and the training grounds are instantly filled with it’s sand innards. Ingrid turns her disapproval on him.
“Didn’t the Professor ask you stop doing that?” she says. Felix freezes.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she did,” Sylvain agrees and Felix curses so colourfully even Sylvain is surprised.
“Well, I’m not going to help you clean that up, you can explain to her why she needs to buy yet another training dummy. And Sylvain, please actually help his Highness, the first dance is important. Just… mind your toes,” she says with a wince, before waving and marching out.
Felix is still staring angrily at the mess, face moving through a series of emotions which Sylvain knows betrays slight guilt and worry, so Sylvain stands and throws an arm over his shoulder.
“Come on, we can’t turn back time so best to clear it up. Buy her a new dummy if it bothers you,” Sylvain says as Felix twists his way out of his grip, having endured the hug for a mere thirty seconds. Which is actually fairly long in Felix time.
As they begin tidying, Sylvain cannot help but think back to this morning.
“What did the Professor want to talk to you about anyway?” Sylvain asks,testing his theory. Felix continues picking up debris for a moment, and Sylvain actually thinks he’s ignoring him until he finally responds.
“Just some extra training I might be interested in,” he says, a scoff in his voice, but his eyes tell a different story.
Sylvain watches for a moment, thinks as Felix continues to clear up the mess he’s made, swift and deliberate, almost increasing his pace.
“What training? Are you going to do it?” he asks, leaning back against the wall.
“Reason, of all things. I'm a swordsman, it makes no sense,” Felix states loudly, not turning around.
“So that’s a yes on doing it?” Sylvain calls and Felix slowly turns around, glaring with a blush blooming across his nose. So very obvious.
Ah, so I am right , he thinks, but before he can say anything Felix stalks towards him, causing Sylvain to scramble up.
“Why are you teaching the boar to dance?” he asks, and it floors Sylvain for a second, because why is he doing that? He genuinely wants to help his friends, has always been there for them since they were children. And through the years, they’ve splintered off; none of them need him anymore, and he feels them slipping further from him with each day.
Perhaps that’s what it is. Less out of the goodness of his heart but more out of the will to capture a time where he was wanted more directly by those he still considers closest to him. Even if they don’t consider it back.
“Can’t let his Highness fall on his face in front of everyone,” Sylvain says with a shrug and Felix lifts an eyebrow as if to say ‘and why not?’
“Come on, Felix. We both know he needs practice,” Sylvain says with a smile.
“I don’t doubt that, but why are you helping? Didn’t he swear never to let you help him after that girl chased him for three days?” Felix says with a curve on his lips, because of course he finds that amusing.
“Literally not my fault, he misused my advice. Plus, I go dancing all the time, with actual women. I know what I’m doing here,” Sylvain says proudly and Felix makes a displeased sound before marching away.
Sylvain finds himself following, wondering again why his friends are so quick to pass contempt on his dancing skills.
The ball announcement creates many reactions from the Blue Lions. Ingrid appears to be permanently traumatised from what she is calling ‘the gown incident’ and spends three days running from Mercie and Annette after they corner her with makeup. There’s a hum and buzz of excitement in the class as a whole, mixed with a faint nervousness from nearly all of them.
In the wake of this, is Dimitri and Sylvain’s first dance lesson, held at an ungodly hour in the Blue Lions classroom.
“I had work to do, now is the only time I could manage today. Thank you for indulging me,” Dimitri says with a bow, and something in Sylvain’s chests twists. He clears his throat and brushes past, pocketing the unfamiliar feeling for another time.
“I did have a date, but she’ll understand,” he says, which he knows is the wrong thing but he cannot help but fall back on bad habits, even if Dimitri frowns.
“Sylvain, you said you’d cease those types of activities,” he says and Sylvain holds up his hands in surrender.
“Hey, I’ve been training more, and I aced our last two tests as usual. I’m allowed my one date a week. Well, two I suppose, if you count tonight,” he says with a wink.
“This is not a date, Sylvain,” Dimitri says, sounding tired, but for some reason, Sylvain cannot stop pulling at the thread.
“I mean it’s late, just the two of us, we’re dancing… I’m joking Your Highness, come on, let’s start before you fall asleep on your feet,” he says, moving to the centre of the room.
It takes Dimitri a moment to follow. “I am not that tired,” he insists and Sylvain just sends him a look.
“You’re clearly exhausted, so let’s start,” Sylvain says, dismissing any protests and standing ready before Dimitiri.
Who just blinks back at him. Sylvain inhales.
“Ask me to dance, Your Highness,” he prompts.
Dimitri startles. “But you know we are going to dance, you’re teaching me,” he states.
“On the night, you’ll need to ask a girl to dance. So, pretend I’m that girl and lead me to the floor,” Sylvain states patiently.
“That is hard to imagine…” Dimitri begins and Sylvain channels Felix as best he can with his death glare and Dimitri hastily offers his hand and draws Sylvain forward when it’s taken.
Not bad , he thinks, but as soon as Dimitri takes one step forward, his boots clunk into Sylvain’s shin. He grunts and winces as Dimitri pulls back in alarm.
“I am so so—”
“It’s fine, small bruise. Just think more about placing. Indicate when you’re going to move with your arms rather than your feet. Here,” Sylvain states, switching the hold so he’s leading, then adding slight pressure to his grip before stepping forward; Dimitri neatly follows as they proceed in one rotation.
Sylvain can’t tell if Dimitri is nervous or generally still finds this challenging. He grips too hard, Sylvain having to shake his fingers out to release the blood flow, steps a little too wide and his footing is uneven. It’s passable—if it were anyone else, Sylvain wouldn’t feel they need practice; half the fun of dancing is learning and enjoying it with your partner.
But he is the Heir Apparent, and his dance is a statement more than anything; he needs to be better. But they are starting at a decent bar, and that is a relief.
Their final dance is good. Sylvain is actually able to switch off his mind from analysis and genuinely enjoy being spun around the room, gaze affixed to his partner. Dimitri is frowning, though, clearly still too much in his head, which they’ll have to work on in the next few days. But his confidence in his steps has improved—half the battle in itself—as they turn with purpose. His hold is good, a guide more than a presence, in the same way well crafted armor would fit; protecting without chafing, suited just for him.
Dimitri looks up suddenly as their pace becomes leisurely in a final slide to the left which is effortlessly smooth. His eyes do not quaver, do not question the state of affairs but stay, taking in Sylvain and allowing him to gaze back in return, his stomach swooping one then climbing as if-
“Well? Was that final turn acceptable?” Dimitri says, letting go of Sylvain in a manner that feels abrupt.
Sylvain’s throat catches as he attempts to speak, mouth suddenly dry; he needs to cough to clear it. He feels warm, too overheated from languid dancing and he wonders if someone is already stoking the fires for the morning.
“It was great, see, even in… wow, we’ve been dancing for over an hour,” Sylvain says, a little shocked at how the time has dissolved.
Dimitri however seems pleased by the comment, but ruins it all by yawning.
Sylvain laughs. “Bedtime, I think. And don’t get up too early for training, Your Highness. We can’t have you sleeping in class or passing out because I kept you up late,” he says, belated realising what he’s just implied by the way Dimitri splutters.
Sylvain mentally screams into his hands in mortification but carries on as if he’s not made the faux pase.
“I’ll close up the room, you go on ahead. I expect even with my warning you’ll get up early regardless,” he says.
“I cannot let you do that,” Dimitri replies.
Sylvain however shakes his head. “Seriously, please go and sleep or we won’t be able to practice. I promise it’s fine.”
Dimitri looks as if he may argue once more, then bows to Sylvain, who blinks, not expecting it.
“Thank you, Sylvain,” he says, a smile in his words and on his face, before he turns and retreats.
Sylvain watches him go, unsure why he does so, but unable to stop.
Felix is chosen for the White Heron Cup.
It’s so utterly hilarious that, added with his furious expression, Sylvain cannot even laugh. He just gapes and struggles to master language while Felix stalks up and down the length of the Blue Lions classroom.
“You are a good dancer, though,” Ingrid tries but it’s not the moment, and she winces as Felix’s pacing double times.
They exchange looks, and Sylvain shakes his head. Felix will speak again, unleash whatever is brewing in those strides. They just need to wait it out. Ingrid slides over next to him, both of their eyes tracking Felix’s every step.
“How is his Highness doing?” Ingrid murmurs.
Sylvain finds himself smiling. “Okay, actually. I think he’s gotten better in the last few years,” he says.
“That’s not hard,” she replies, and Sylvain stifles a laugh.
“He’s still clumsy, and he kicked my shin, which is literally mauve today. Anyway, I think we’ll get there with a few more practices,” he says.
“We?”
Sylvain turns at Ingrid’s tone. She frowns at him, eyes calculating and intense as she uses that power of hers to scrutinise and see the fine lines which are unspoken, making him pull up his defenses on instinct, even if it is just Ingrid.
“I can’t do a dance competition, this is a terrible idea,” Felix suddenly announces.
“Are you going to tell the Professor as such?” Ingrid replies, easily switching her focus.
Felix hisses out in frustration and Sylvain laughs quietly. Felix is so entirely obvious, even if he hasn’t got there yet.
“Felix, you’ll be fine. Who else is competing?” Sylvain asks.
“Ferdinand from Black Eagles and Marianne from Golden Deer,” he says.
“They’re both good, wanna join my dance practice?” he says with a grin and Felix looks appalled.
“I am not practicing with the boar. I have to have lessons with the Professor, anyway,” Felix mutters and Sylvain’s face must betray him for Felix suddenly turns red and he’s being manhandled to the training room without further ado.
Ingrid follows for some unknown reason, probably as she’s a terrible friend and enjoys seeing Sylvian suffer. They enter in a scramble of shouts and protests, all three immediately quietening when they realise the room is rather busy.
Sylvain straightens when he sees a flash of blue, unmistakably Dimitri even before his face comes into view. Next to him is the Professor, who turns a blank, but clearly unimpressed expression on them while on her other side are Annette and Dorothea.
Dorothea transferred to their house just last week, and Annette as a fellow magic user is her ‘buddy.’ Why they seem to be doing some sort of introduction in the training room Sylvain doesn’t know, but he’s extremely aware that he, Felix and Ingrid are now standing ramrod straight, barely breathing but still hanging onto each others wrists in a strange combination.
It looks bizarre, he knows this, but he also doesn’t know what to do. Fortunately the Professor steps forward.
“Felix, you’re early. I’m glad you’re taking the White Hero Cup so seriously,” she says, and Sylvain knows even if nothing in her voice or stance betrays her, that she’s absolutely mocking him.
Sylvain is holding his laughter in with every ounce of his being as Felix is still gripping his wrist and he’s a little terrified of what will befall him if he lets it out.
“Awe, I’m so jealous, Felix! I love dancing, but you’ll be great!” Annette says with a small hop and Felix half coughs half splutters, which makes Annette smile more. Sylvain grins to himself; Annette’s probably Felix’s favorite person in the entire world, and she knows it well.
“I still think you’ve made a bad decision, Professor,” Dorothea says with a sweet smile, turning her head at a particular angle that Sylvain knows is used to great effect.
Ingrid coughs. Both he and Felix look at her, as to Sylvain’s surprise her cheeks darken. Okay, that’s two out of three, do all my friends have ball-crush madness? He thinks to himself. At the same time, Felix’s fingers clamp down on his wrist. Sylvain hisses and shakes, causing Felix to let go instantly, sending him a glance of apology.
“While I’m sure many of you would be excellent dancers, I have already entered Felix. Since you’re here, we should practice. Annette, would you please help set up Dorothea for our Reason lecture this afternoon?” The Professors says pleasantly, Annette instantly agreeing.
The Professor nods, then looks at Felix and with a small gesture of her head, indicates he should follow. Felix sighs, then turns, doing as such swiftly, the cadence of their teacher’s voice as she starts speaking to him meeting Sylvian’s ears once they fall in step, although her words are too soft to hear. Sylvain grins, but turns back as soon as his name is called.
“Were you here to train? You seem to have lost your partner. I’d be happy to spar,” Dimitri states, moving forward.
He seems eager, which puts Sylvain on edge somewhat; while he is improving under the rigorous training schedule and guidance from the Professor, Dimitri is still in a league of his own.
“Err… okay tell you what—we can spar for a while, then we go back to dance practice,” he says, thinking Dimitri may go a little easier on him if they have another activity planned.
Dimitri pauses, then smiles, and Sylvain gulps a little. He really does have a Princely smile, charming and bright, one that spurns off Sylvain’s own before he can prevent it.
“That sounds fair. Well, shall we?” he states, gesturing to the weapons rack.
Sylvain sighs but gives in, and just as he does Annette springs forward.
“Ingrid, you should show Dorothea the gowns you were looking at. She can definitely help you choose,” she says with clear enthusiasm.
Ingrid balks taking one step back while Dorothea walks to meet Annette.
“I would love to see them, Ingrid! I bet you look stunning in them both,” she says, and Sylvain just has to stop to see her reaction.
It’s worth it. Ingrid’s eyes widen, cheek’s darken, she looks to either side of herself as Dorothea smiles indulgently. Sylvain meets Annette’s gaze who grins. Looks like he has another ally in this one.
“Sylvain, here!”
He turns just in time to catch a training lance, and looks pointedly back to Dimitri who offers a hasty bow of apology.
He calls a goodbye to Ingrid, Annette and Dorothea, Ingrid still looking slightly dazed but finally seeming to start holding her own, before he turns back to Dimitri, who is already poised for a bout.
Sylvain steels himself, readying his lance and falling into as steady a stance as he can manage. He inhales once, just enough time to begin his focus before Dimitri strikes. In an instant, any thoughts of the Prince going easy on him are banished. Dimitri strikes with a similar force he’d take against any foe, Sylvain having to use his full skill in order to block and strike at opportune moments.
He appreciates this, though. Sylvain knows he plays the fool so that the persona is easier to slip into than his boots in the morning. But he wants to train, honestly. His three friends from childhood never let up—never have, and hopefully, never will. So he tries to maintain his own, but he tires faster than Dimitri, who eventually manages to knock him to the floor.
Sylvain allows himself the luxury of staring at the ceiling for a second before Dimitri’s slightly concerned expression comes into view. Before he can speak, Sylvain smiles, his head only slightly pounding.
“I’m good, I’m good. Stop frowning,” he says, and swipes his hand upwards to poke at the furrow between Dimitri’s brows.
Which is a really odd thing to do, and Sylvain can’t explain it. The pads of his fingertips brush against Dimitri’s forehead, smoothing, tracing. The skin is warmer than he expects, probably flushed from their exertion, and while it takes only a second, it seems to last in his mind for hours.
Syvain clears his throat, coming back from… wherever that moment exists.
“Do you need a hand?” Dimitri asks, voice oddly rough, and offers a hand without waiting for a response. Wise, as Sylvain doesn’t know what words would pour out, so he’s hoisted to his feet rapidly.
“Well, now that you’ve successfully bested me at training, shall we try dancing?” Sylvain says once he’s on his feet, quickly putting his lance away, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
He turns back to see Dimitri looks over at him, strangely still and focused at nothing. Sylvain crosses the gap readily, coming to rest his fingertips carefully on his shoulder.
“Your Highness?” he asks, voice quiet.
Dimitri starts, looking embarrassed. He mutters out an apology before turning to put away his own lance. Sylvain watches him go, takes in the way he moves and holds himself as he tidies away. He seems all right—perhaps it was just a moment lost in thought. There is a particular way that overcomes him when he becomes lost in the past; the memories that interrupt the normality of the present, wrap him up and bring him back to them while the world turns forward without him.
Sylvain sees whenever it happens, and it appears to happen more as they get older. He supposes there’s only so long you can run; although Sylvain isn’t one to talk, he can’t say he deals with his past well. But with Dimitri, it’s different. Sylvain finds it almost unbearable to watch it happen.
Although this is the first time he’s given into the urge and actually reached out.
“Apologies for the delay,” Dimitri says, then smiles and holds out his hand palm upwards and demeanor, relaxed but confident.
“May I have this dance?”
And Sylvain swoons .
He hides it, just nods and takes Dimitri’s hand and is immediately swept up in a slightly too sharp turn while he prays his face isn’t quite as warm as it feels. He understands now exactly how that girl had the wrong idea. Dimitri asking him for one dance has his stomach flipping with sparks and awareness of every place they touch, drive and excitement fueling his movements. His charm is devastating, and Sylvain has never been on the receiving end before.
He tries to calm as they dance but it’s actually rather tricky. The smile on Dimitri’s face doesn’t leave, even with the occasional critique he nods and adjusts, still smiling, happy as if he’s enjoying it. Sylvain actually hopes he is, as he is enjoying it too. It’s just dancing without aim, for the movement and the spins, not to have an end game like it does when Sylvain goes into town.
He’s sad when they slow to part, Dimitri taking a step back, which he follows.
Then, he bows.
The fluttering is back and Sylvain is, once more, off kilter.
“Thank you, Sylvain, for the lesson. I feel that we’re making a lot of progress. May I ask for one more before the ball?” he says, and if Sylvain didn’t know any better, he’d think he sounds eager.
“You are doing great, your highness. Sure, we should practice once with music,” Sylvain adds, thinking that’s probably the final step.
Dimitri smiles, agreeing to meet him two evenings from now. Sylvain lingers a little, having nowhere in particular to be, making a slow way out of the grounds and back towards the dorms. As he does, he passes the Professor instructing Felix and he cannot help but stop to watch for a moment.
Felix is good, as Sylvain expected, and the Professor watches him with a pleased air, commenting only once or twice at his positioning. When she adjusts his arms, Sylvain sees, even from this distance, Felix inhale just once, a momentary faltering of his carefully contracted barrier upon barrier of coldness.
“It’s cute, right?”
Sylvain nearly jumps out of his skin as Annette appears beside him.
“Wow, I didn’t see you,” he says, trying to calm his heart. She glares up at him in reply and he holds his hands out in surrender.
“It is cute,” he says, with a grin, watching Felix move with his eyes obviously awaiting judgement from the Professor.
“You’re almost as adorable,” Annette adds, but just smiles and waves goodbye when Sylvain turns back to question her meaning.
They definitely have far more important things to concern themselves with than a ball, but it’s all the students of Garreg Mach talk about for the next few days. The rumors fly—who is accompanying who, what they should wear and more than one illegal betting pool on who will win the Heron Cup.
(The odds are on Marianne, which he thinks it’s much to do with Hilda. But his entire bet is riding on his best friend; not that he’ll say anything of course).
But Sylvain finds himself more anxious to dance with Dimitri again. Those moments from the previous two sessions play on his mind; the intensity of his stare, focusing on his partner even in that first dance. His smile when he moves correctly, his confidence once he gains his stride, the way he holds Sylvain as he dances.
And that’s without the charming words included. Those he replays over and over, the cadence locked in his mind so stuck, nothing could remove it. It’s almost to the point of obsession, fantasy and wondering, almost as if—
Wait—
Sylvain knocks over a pot of ink, stares at it blankly as the liquid sweeps into his notes and puddles across the desk.
Almost as if he’s falling for Dimitri.
But that is impossible. Sylvain doesn't fall for people, doesn’t pine and look forward to spending time with them, recount how they say his name over and over. Except this is precisely what he’s doing with Dimitri, even now as he sits in his tactics lecture, unable to move a muscle while ink drips onto the floor.
Felix, who is sitting next to him, throws tissue onto his face, glaring at the ink stain. It startles Sylvain enough, so he starts dabbing at the mess, even though his notes are now useless. When class ends, he still has to finish cleaning, and knows he’ll be borrowing someone’s notes if he wants to remember any of the last hour.
“What is wrong with you?” Felix says in accusatory exasperation which means he actually wants to know.
But Sylvain is not ready to have this conversation, especially with Felix so he waves him off.
“Just tired. Out too late,” he says with a wink, which is an absolute lie as he hasn’t been on any dates for the past few weeks—he’s been focused on dancing.
Really, why hasn’t he realised sooner?
Felix huffs, but keeps a close eye on him through their next class, which makes Sylvain’s heart lift a little. Unfortunately, it plummets when he realises they have a House lecture. He’ll have to stare at the back of Dimitri's head all class because he always sits at the front, and Sylvain cannot stop looking forward.
So, it’s another hour of silent panic while Felix gives him odd looks. What is he meant to do with this realisation? Perhaps it’s just the dancing. Perhaps when the ball is over, it will go back to how it was before? But then Dimitri laughs at something and Sylvain feels like he’s taken a mouthful of oil, tacky and bitter while igniting its way through his throat and downwards.
It doesn’t look like it has any sign of stopping.
His limbs twitch with sudden energy as the class comes to a close, and he bolts up and out of his seat, as if by moving quickly he might be able to outwit this feeling. He doesn’t get far though, for even before he reaches a door, there’s a hand on his shoulder. And by the weight and feel of it, he knows exactly who it belongs to.
He turns slowly, Dimitri’s hand still clasping onto his shoulder.
“Ah, Sylvain apologies, are you busy?” he says, seeming contrite.
Sylvain means to say yes, as he has an appointment with his own mind to go into panic mode, but he shakes his head instead.
Dimitri looks relieved. “Good! I was wondering if you are free after dinner? To practice!” he sys, the last words coming out in a loud rush which makes Sylvain balk a little.
“Whenever you’re ready, Your Highness,” Sylvain says with a smile. Dimitri’s eyes flicker away as if he’s thinking of something to say, but struggling to locate the words. When he turns back, he realises he’s still holding onto Sylvain, and lifts his hand as if he’s been burned, leaving Sylvain staring at his shoulder in surprise.
“I—I’m—after dinner then,” Dimitri states, smiling brightly. He moves past Sylvain swiftly, leaving him blinking at the space he’d been in, mind whirling.
He has a few hours. Which he thinks should aid him in preparing to deal with his new found issues but instead it just makes the entire thing worse as he builds it up in his mind. He decides to skip dinner as he feels slightly nauseous, but makes his way to one of the teaching rooms to wait for Dimitri.
He’s early, but Dimitri is too, only arriving a few minutes afterwards, smiling a little when he sees Sylvain.
“I’m impressed by your timekeeping, Sylvain,” he says, and Sylvain cannot help but make a wounded noise.
“I’ve always been on time for our lessons, haven’t I?” he asks, gesturing around at the empty room.
“Yes, you have,” Dimitri says and the smile he displays with it is so easy but soft, and Sylvain has to turn around and walk to the music box he’s brought with him before he does something stupid. Like ask him to smile like that again.
“Best I could do at short notice,” he calls, cranking the dial until it’s taunt, letting it go and the small room is filled with a tinny impersonation of a waltz. His face burns a little as he turns around, realising this really isn’t appropriate, but Dimitri is still smiling when their eyes meet.
He says nothing, and instead bows, low and deep, almost too much so for a Prince. Then he extends his hand, Sylvain accepts, and they are dancing.
Sylvain finally understands where the romantic associations of dance come from, as Dimitri seems to have mastered everything. His steps are perfectly measured, his hold of Sylvain’s hand and waist is the right amount of guide and rest, his turns are tight and his gaze is solely on Sylvain.
So Sylvain loses himself in each moment.
He occasionally looks away, but he can hardly bear to, just being whisked away by the music that seems vibrant and absorbing. Now they have begun, he doesn’t feel like he’s dancing, like he’s even really moving his legs; he’s just a part of a moment with Dimitri—the two so in sync, it’s almost beyond belief.
Then, the last chime of the box plays and Dimitri slows them, but does not let go of Sylvain. He swallows, loud in the now silent room. They are close, which is exactly how they should be to dance, but Sylvain thinks this is closer than ever before. He can see the shades of colour in Dimitri’s eyes, picks out parts that seem almost silver in the light of the room, impossible glares made that are still beautiful all the same.
His breathing is accelerated, his mouth goes dry and he worries his hand in Dimitri's has started to sweat. He doesn’t know what will happen now, but he also does; for he’s read this, he’s been here before but it’s never seemed so crucial and terrifying until—
There is a crash and yell of laughter from outside and the moment bursts so abruptly that Sylvain thinks the temperature drops as they in tandem break apart. He just about resists the urge to hug his arms over his chest.
“Well, I think you’re set. Now you’ve just got to ask a girl for a dance,” Sylvain says as the words turn to ash in his mouth, a bitter crimson of burnt fantasties.
“Yes. I do,” Dimitri says, words mechanical. Then he smiles.
“Thank you, Sylvain. I must admit, I did not think your instruction would be necessary, but you have proven me wrong,” he says.
“Think nothing of it, Your Highness,” Sylvain says, the answer genuine.
Because really, he has learned that in so many ways, he is powerless to Dimitri.
Felix wins the White Heron Cup. He looks as surprised as most of the crowd, and once the demure congratulations of the teachers are bestowed, the Blue Lions cheer obnoxiously, lead by him and Ingrid. Felix turns red, threatens them all, but allows most of them some form of hug or handshake before waving them off.
Sylvain spends the week gleefully recounting moments of the dance which were particularly striking, and receives several bruised ribs for his compliments. But the winning Cup stays proudly on the Professor’s desk in the Blue Lions classroom, which gives all of them a boost and makes Felix trip the first morning they walk in.
It’s a welcome distraction for Sylvain, whose mind spirals on the looming event of the next week, and with it the blooming, terrible emotions he’s trying desperately to squash. He is, sadly, extremely adept at burying both fear and care, so time passes as swiftly as ever.
On the evening itself, the grand hall is transformed for the ball, all of the students in formal wear. Sylvain stands at the back of the hall, a glass of something sweet and vaguely fruity in his hand as he watches students laugh, exchange glances or cuddle up to partners and friends. Then, with a hush that seems to wave across the room, the first notes of the music starts up.
Sylvain hasn’t seen him before now, but with the first notes, Dimitri appears. He bows to a girl Sylvain does not recognise, and leads her to the floor, her cheeks a little pink as the dance begins. He sees Edelgard do the same, the two crossing the hall almost back to back with their partners, both as adept as future rulers should be. Sylvain knows this is just a formality, that there have always been these parts they all must play, and always will be.
But the wanting burns. He wants to be her. Wants to be spun around in a room full of his peers, wants to be the first choice of the Prince and given his full attention just like he’d been when they practiced. And that feeling is not helpful nor one which can be fulfilled, so he tries to let it bleed away as the dance goes on, stomach feeling emptier and emptier with every comfortable look Dimitri gives his partner.
Then Claude turns the dance on it’s head by requesting the Professor’s hand, and Felix next to him chokes on his drink, clutching the glass so hard Sylvain fears he may break it. The room instantly fills with murmurs and laughter as the two join, and suddenly it’s an open house. Ingrid grabs Felix and pulls him protesting to the dance floor, Sylvain finding his own hand gripped by Annette as they do.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to stand on the edge all night,” she teases, and Sylvain manages a laugh as he begins to lead.
Annette is a fantastic dancer so they make a good pair, cutting through and catching the eyes of many of their peers.
“You know, I think you should ask him to dance,” Annette says as the song changes.
“Who?” Sylvain says on instinct, and she sighs heavily.
“Don’t be like that. I saw you practicing that first night in the library. It’s been clear on both of your faces since then,” she says.
“He’s the future King,” Sylvain says, and again Annette just shakes her head.
“And that means he can make his own choices. Pretty sure if you asked he’d tell you what he thinks,” she says.
They dance in silence until the song ends, when they part, Annette waving him off, and immediately being approached by Ashe. Sylvain can’t help but give him a thumbs up, yet as he turns around his heart falls a little. He scans the room, but can’t see Dimitri. He’s not sure what he’d do if he had done though, and instantly the room spins with Annette’s words and it is too stuffy for him to cope.
He marches out, flashes a smile at Ingrid, who looks concerned over Dorothea’s shoulder as she stiffly dances with her. He hopes she stays, focuses on the woman who she’s falling for even if she, much like him, doesn’t know how to deal with it. They’re all somewhat hopeless, he thinks with a laugh as he makes his way across the silent grounds, unable to know where to go.
He ends up meandering to the goddess tower. He recalls some legend of this being a place to make wishes, but he doesn't believe in such things. If wishes were real, his entire life would be different—a shadow of long nights casting itself unbidden. He sighs and leans against the wall, hoping those memories do not flood his system. The last thing he wants right now is a sleepless night full of history.
“Sylvain?”
His voice, in a tone that sends molten delight through his bones, has Sylvain straightening almost in disbelief. For there framed in moonlight, is Dimitri, and Sylvain is once again wondering when his life became that of a romance novel.
“Your Highness,” he says, taking a few steps forward. Dimitri shakes his head.
“Sylvain, after these past few weeks I would much prefer it if you used my name,” he says, fond and possibly with a slight quaver in his voice. Either way, Sylvain is struck dumb. Dimitri laughs quietly as he steps forward.
And in a mirror of the night before, he bows low, then holds out his hand.
“May I have this dance?” he asks, and Sylvain can feel a hysterical laughter bubbling over so he has to clamp down on it before he gives over his own hand.
“Yes, You-Dimitri,” he tries, the name strange on his tongue despite knowing it almost as long as his own.
They have done this several times now but the thrill is still there when Dimitri draws him close, definitely closer than ever before. He allows himself to be led as they begin, which is not like himself at all; he is the chaser, the dropper, the one that calls each terrible shot as he makes bad decision after bad decision.
He does not follow his heart. He does not let the staccato rhythm of his emotions guide his feet in small circles in an ancient crumbling tower and allow his wishes to fly. Yet he does. Tonight, he absolutely does.
He has his wish of the evening, for Dimitri’s eyes do not wander and his smile only grows as they turn and step, turn and step. But it’s a short dance—before Sylvain even thinks it’s really started, they begin to slow. Still close, still touching, still gazing.
And once again, he knows how this goes. And once again, it is charged with potential Sylvain has never known before.
They slow until they are just standing, heights so similar, breath almost mingling. Sylvain wets his lips, Dimitri watches. So he takes the boldest step of his life.
“Dimitri… may I kiss you?”
Dimitri’s hand trembles in his but his smile widens.
“Please, Sylvain. I have wanted you to ask that for so long.”
So Sylvain leans in, presses in and feels the way Dimitri gasps at just the slightest touch of their lips. It allows him to break for a second kiss, this time taking advantage of Dimitri’s loosened grip to pull him tighter and unlock their fingers so he can cup his cheek. Sylvain coaxes kisses, so many kisses along with noises he begins to catalogue, sighs and the beginnings of gasps as he works out exactly how Dimitri wants to be kissed.
They lean away for air, Sylvain laughing a little as Dimitri attempts to chase his mouth.
“Greedy,” he chastises, looping his arms around Dimitri’s neck and feeling almost giddy when Dimitri’s own encircle his waist.
“Hmm well, you are a good teacher, of many things,” he says almost against Sylvain’s mouth.
“And you learn so quickly. How many sessions will it take you to master this? More or less than dancing?” he teases.
“I would like to find out,” Dimitri whispers.
“Me too,” Sylvain manages before there is no longer space between them, and another practice session begins.