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The grand estate in Derdriu—having formerly belonged to House Riegan prior to Fódlan’s consolidation—is bustling with people and sounds. The final vestiges of the Imperial Army and Shambhala’s inhabitants had left their mark on the city, though their attack had been ultimately repelled thanks to Almyra’s timely intervention. The panic in the air has been gradually subsiding in the wake of the battle, though it is still abuzz around the estate as wounds are tended and the dead are identified. The west wing, in particular, is full of moving bodies and excited chatter. Maids run to and fro, replacing fresh bandages with bloodied ones and carting around medical equipment for either sterilization or use. It is here that the upper echelons of the army—Fódlan and Almyra alike—are being treated.
On the second floor, in the bedroom once occupied by penultimate Duke Riegan, Claude lays feverish and wounded, the fine silk sheets stripped back to allow the healers and doctors to work. Through the poking and prodding, stitching and cleansing, wrapping and re-wrapping, Claude maintains a steady—if not somewhat delirious—smile. Courtesy of the infection settling into his injured shoulder despite the best efforts of Derdriu’s finest, of course. By the time Byleth is permitted anywhere near him, the sun has already sunken well below the horizon, casting a pall of night over the Aquatic Capital. Byleth was only allowed to remain in the room by virtue of being the leader of Fódlan; in light of that, they were delegated to a far corner of the bedroom rather than the outside corridor where Judith and Nader had been banished.
Mopping the sweat from his brow, the head physician finally turns to Byleth. “We’ve contained the infection and stopped the bleeding. He will need antibiotics twice a day, as well as salve for the wound itself. The poison on the blade that cut him was very potent, but not more than we could handle.” Despite everything, the man appears exceedingly proud of himself.
Byleth—tired and sore from the uncomfortable chair they’ve been perched upon—gives him a flat look. “Great. Can I talk to him now?”
“Certainly, Your Majesty! But, please, keep it brief: he needs his rest.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
With a self-important nod, the head physician and his nurses gather their things and sweep out of the room. Claude sees them off with a lackadaisical wave, though his eyes are on Byleth—as they had been for most of the evening. Finally, they go to his side, sitting beside him on the edge of the mattress. He smiles sweetly. “Hey, beautiful.” He puts his hand over theirs, the movement stiff as he tries not to jostle his heavily-bandaged shoulder. The smell of herbs is pungent from the poultices applied to the underside of the gauze.
Byleth frowns, caught somewhere between longing and frustration. It had been five years since they last saw each other, only for him to nearly die right before their eyes. “That was incredibly stupid of you, Claude.” Despite the reproach in their voice, they do not move their hand away, allowing him to lazily lace their fingers together. “What were you thinking ?”
“I wasn’t.” He beams. “Come on, By. It’s been so long. Is that all you have to say to me? How about ‘I missed you’ or ‘welcome back’?”
“That’s new,” they remark dryly, ignoring his questions. “Aren’t you kind of known for thinking? Isn’t that your thing?”
“Generally, yes. Give me a kiss.”
“No.”
“I thought saving the life of my gorgeous betrothed would have at least earned me a kiss.”
Byleth scowls down at him, but he remains undeterred. If anything, their dour reactions only seem to encourage Claude further. “All right, then. I’ll come to you,” he announces cheerfully, and that is all the warning he gives before he tries to sit up. Panicked, Byleth immediately releases his hand and pushes down on his uninjured shoulder. After that initial stab of fear subsides, they glower at him; they know what he’s trying to do, of course. This is far from his most brilliant scheme.
Sighing, Byleth gives in, leaning down to place a gentle kiss upon Claude’s lips. They can feel his smirk, along with the hand that languidly brushes through the hair at the back of their head. Still, the kiss remains soft and chaste, and when Byleth pulls back, they feel a pang in their chest at the way Claude gazes up at them. Shameless adoration and love and yearning. Byleth can feel their face reddening a bit—at all he has left open for them to see. They had assumed he would miss them, but they were not—are not—presumptuous enough to have guessed at how much . Their hand curls into a fist, and they scrunch up their face. “I missed you,” they murmur quietly, their nose bumping lightly against his.
He exhales, and with his other hand he strokes down their side before settling their fingers about their hip. The touch sends a thrill down Byleth’s spine. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back to you.” The way he says it causes their chest to seize up, and whatever frustration or fear they had been feeling all but melts away. They cup his face between their hands, smiling faintly; his eyes go half-lidded in response, as though savoring the sensation. Byleth is quietly pleased to discover that his fever has gone down.
“...You picked a hell of a time, too,” they admit.
“I mean, heroes always arrive at the last minute, right?” Claude grins before lifting his head to kiss them again. It is leisurely and tender—deeper than the first. After a brief moment, he breaks it to press his lips along their jawline. “...But I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I couldn’t bear to show my face here until I did what I set out to do.”
Byleth hums at that, considering. Whether he succeeded or failed had never been strictly important to them, but they have a feeling he would not be interested in such a response. “The king of Almyra… Should I start calling you ‘Your Majesty’?” they ask instead, feeling a bit ticklish as Claude’s ministrations move down to their neck.
“Please don’t.”
“Hey, I have to deal with it too.” He nips at their throat, eliciting a huff of laughter from Byleth. Nosing his way down to their collarbone, he sighs after a moment before shifting away, tugging them into bed alongside him. There is still the scent of medicine in the air, but here—next to Claude—it is easier to ignore. They tuck their face against him, breathing him in. They had exchanged letters dutifully during their half a decade apart, but only now can Byleth truly appreciate how lacking a substitute the letters had been for having Claude beside them, in the flesh. He is reacquainting himself similarly, his nose buried in their hair as he wraps his arms securely around them, hands clasped at the small of their back.
“Byleth,” he murmurs.
“Hm?”
“Marry me.”
They smirk into his neck before planting a delicate kiss there. “Isn’t that why you gave me this ring?” Lifting their left hand, they wiggle their fingers before him. The ring glimmers in the light—a vibrant green, as lovely as the day Claude had first presented it to them. Byleth hadn’t taken it off since.
“I meant right now.”
“Now?”
“We’ll call Nader in here and he can officiate. Or you can do it! Is the archbishop allowed to officiate their own wedding?”
“Claude, you can’t even stand.”
He tsks, and Byleth can tell he is on the verge of whining. They laugh, hugging him tight. “...As soon as you’re healed, we’ll have the ceremony. Okay?”
“ Byleth …”
“You’ve waited this long. You can bear it a few weeks more.”
“I’m willing to compromise...if we can make it a grand affair. The whole nine yards.” They can hear his grin. So this is what he was getting at. They had discussed the nature of their wedding more than once in their letters; Byleth, of course, favored something small while Claude wanted nothing more than the party of the century. ‘A fete they’ll be talking about for years to come’ he had written, once. And here Byleth could barely handle the comparatively subdued affair that had been the Garreg Mach ball during their Academy days…
Yet with Claude here, in their arms, Byleth is feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. Without him, it had only been too easy for them to slip back into their unemotional mask. Now that he has—finally—returned, their feelings come a bit easier. He had always made it easier. Scooting back a bit, Byleth looks up at him, their lips pressed into a thin line of contemplation. He smiles back—warm and open and just a bit cheeky, as is his wont.
“It’ll be fun, By. Trust me, will ya?” he cajoles, lifting a hand to lightly pinch at their cheek. They quirk their lips to the side without thinking, and—all of a sudden—they can scarcely remember why they had been so against a blowout wedding in the first place.
“Okay. Yeah. Go wild.”
Claude’s eyes light up at once, and that banishes whatever knee-jerk regret Byleth might have been feeling in that moment. They cannot help but kiss the corner of his mouth. “Stars, I love you, Byleth,” he croons, voice sugary sweet and in direct contradiction to the way his hands drift down to take two firm, lascivious handfuls of their ass.
“Don’t get too excited. We’re sleeping with our clothes on tonight, Claude.”
“ Byleth .”
“You’re injured.” Reaching up, they squeeze his nose shut between their thumb and forefinger. “Control yourself.”
“You really know how to play with a guy’s feelings, By…” Claude whines, his voice slightly nasally.
“Welcome home, love,” they murmur sweetly, releasing his nose and pressing a kiss to his chin.
He sighs, squeezing them longingly. “The second I’m healed…” His tone makes it sound like a warning, and that elicits another laugh from Byleth. “No, not healed. The second I can... do stuff ...without bleeding to death,” he clarifies at once.
“Yes. The second you’re not at risk of breaking your stitches and bleeding out, we can do stuff ,” they promise.
Claude nods, not exactly satisfied but as close as he could get without doing stuff . As if to console himself, he wraps a hand around the back of Byleth’s knee, dragging their leg forward until he has it hooked around his waist, pulling their body flush to his. He grins wickedly, arching down to rub his nose against theirs. “But I can still touch, right? As long as our clothes stay on?”
“You really can’t help but try to find a loophole in everything, can you?” Byleth asks, amused.
“Nope!”
“Claude, the doctor said I should keep our conversation brief…” they tease, and though he knows it, he cannot help the noise of frustration that escapes him.
“Don’t be cruel to your poor, injured fiancé, By.”
They laugh, nuzzling their face against his sternum, enjoying the warmth that had been slowly spreading between them. Warm enough to sleep, even without the covers. Byleth doubts Claude would let them go long enough to fetch them anyway. Already, his hands wander their body, slipping beneath their tunic to rub up the length of their back. He traces their scars absentmindedly, his calloused fingers following the raised flesh as it criss-crosses their skin. Most were from before the Academy, when Byleth had been a mercenary. When Byleth could not have cared less about their own life and wellbeing.
They’ve grown more careful since coming to Garreg Mach. More aware of what they would lose by dying, thanks in no small part to the friends they had made. And Claude, of course. They kiss the base of his throat, feeling fond and tender. As much as Byleth enjoys acts of a more sexual nature, they cannot deny that soft moments like these hold a special place in their heart. Eventually, Claude’s hands still, and they can hear his breathing even out just above them. Between rushing to Derdriu to his brush with death to the bustling and prodding from the doctors, the day’s exhaustion has finally caught up with him. Byleth would have to remember to apologize to Nader and Judith in the morning—for keeping Claude all to themselves.
But for now, they revel in this intimate contact with Claude, their limbs entangled comfortably about each other. Five long years. Despite themselves, Byleth had imagined a more...glamorous reunion. Yet this is enough—to have him in their arms, safe and alive.