Work Text:
Garland Moon, 1180
Caspar never stops moving.
It was easier to wave away when they were children, Linhardt thinks. He had all the room in the world to run around in meadows, letting his energy out to his heart's content while Linhardt dozed under a tree, half-responding with waves of his hand and murmured answers whenever Caspar called out to him.
But now, trapped in a classroom for nearly half a day, with genuine consequences past a strict father's stricter lecture for missing his schedule, Linhardt can tell that Caspar is struggling. He sits, brow furrowed, bouncing a leg, tapping a quill, chewing on his lip. He's written exactly one word at the top of his parchment: Swords .
Though, if Linhardt is being honest with himself, he's struggling, too. After all, he did just spend the better part of an hour focusing on Caspar not focusing instead of paying attention to Professor Byleth. Caspar, at least, has one word written. Linhardt has simply absentmindedly sketched crests on his own parchment.
Caspar lets his excess energy out during training in the afternoons. Linhardt's reprieve comes in the form of his research, his inability to focus disappearing when he has a few thick tomes in front of him, ripe and ready for reading.
And whenever Caspar's done training, he will come find Linhardt, whether he be in the library or his room, slumping down next to him and burying his face in Linhardt's shoulder, watching his finger trace across the words. Linhardt will shove him off, Caspar will groan and slouch in the other direction, and fidget until Linhardt is done.
It's no secret that Caspar is terrified of thunderstorms. Linhardt knows this, Professor Byleth knows this, and Linhardt wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the Black Eagles know this. But still, it startles Linhardt, sitting upright in his bed and reading, when his bedroom door slams open in the middle of the night, revealing a tearful Caspar with his fists clenched around nothing. He had always done this when they were children, but Linhardt had assumed this would change upon their arrival at the Academy. He supposes, though, that there's really no reason for that.
"Caspar?"
Caspar doesn't reply. Instead, he takes a single step forward, then hesitates, eyes wide and cheeks pale.
"Oh, fine, come here."
And that's all the invitation Caspar needs. Before Linhardt's even done speaking, he launches himself across the room and onto Linhardt's bed, diving under the comforter Linhardt has lifted for him.
Linhardt sighs. No use trying to read now, he reckons, with Caspar's face buried in his side and one arm slung across his lap. To be honest, Caspar is probably the only thing Linhardt can bear to concentrate on more than an interesting book.
So Linhardt shuts his journal, setting it on his nightstand and turning off his lamp in the same motion. He slides down, one arm around Caspar's shoulders. Caspar pulls him closer, head pressed to the bed as if to drown out the sound, and Linhardt runs gentle fingers through his short hair.
"It's quite all right, Caspar," Linhardt assures him quietly. "It won't get close enough to hurt you."
Caspar doesn't reply with words, just shifts, trembling as he pulls the blankets up to his chin.
"How about this," Linhardt says. "Tomorrow, after class, I can make something to protect you."
Caspar sniffs.
"And I can imbue it with magic. I'll make it so thunder can never hurt you."
Caspar tightens his hold on Linhardt.
"And I'll make one for myself, too. Then when there's a storm, we can both be safe."
A beat.
"Does that sound quite all right, Caspar?"
Finally, Caspar looks up. "You'd do that for me, Lin?"
Linhardt resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Why, of course, Caspar. It's rather annoying having you burst into my room whenever there's a touch of rain."
"Shut up," Caspar says, then murmurs something that sounds quite like, "You know you love me," as he snuggles closer to Linhardt.
Linhardt chuckles, shifting so he's laying fully next to Caspar, one hand still stroking his hair as his friend's breathing slows.
For once, Linhardt isn't close to sleep, and he lays there, planting a soft, friendly kiss on the top of Caspar's head. He doesn't feel too bad about lying a bit - Caspar doesn't need to know that there's no way to prevent the weather like that, but he'll make sure to give it some calming magic. It'll bring him comfort, especially if Linhardt wears one too, and that's enough.
That's enough, Linhardt thinks as he falls into sleep, comforted by Caspar's warmth.
"Here," Linhardt says, hand planting on the table he shares with Caspar for classes.
"Oh, hey, Linhardt," Caspar grins up at him. "What's that?"
"Thunder charm."
"Oh," Caspar flushes, looking down at the simple necklace that consisted of 5 stones tied together with twine. "You really didn't have to, I mean, I'm not that scared-"
"Yes, yes, you're very manly," Linhardt deadpans, taking his seat. "Now turn around so I can help you put it on."
Caspar's chest puffs at the word manly, and he says, "Ah, no, you look bone-tired Linhardt. I can put it on myself."
Linhardt doesn't reply, just lays his head on the desk as he watches Caspar fumble with the twine, muttering expletives under his breath as he wraps it around his neck and tries to maneuver it into a knot. "Al- most- got it," he says, right before his hands slip and the charm falls back on the table.
Linhardt snorts. "Having fun there, Caspar?"
"Shut it." Caspar plants his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists.
Linhardt sneaks a hand between Caspar's arms, pulling the charm out from under him. "Here, allow me."
Caspar huffs, turning obediently and tipping his head down to give Linhardt room.
"And it'll protect me?"
"Of course." Linhardt yawns.
"I can still come sleep with you when there's storms though, right?"
Linhardt's hands hesitate for a moment before continuing. "Of course, Caspar."
Caspar relaxes his shoulders. "Good."
Linhardt's fingertips linger on the back of Caspar's neck for a moment. He takes a breath.
"How long are you going to take back there?" Caspar turns his head.
"I'm finished." Linhardt pulls back. "Now be quiet so I can nap."
"Class is about to start."
"Mm. I'll just look at your notes after."
"Linhardt!"
Strangely enough, there are notes for Linhardt to study after class, written in Caspar's stunted, rushed handwriting, smudged up by the fact that he holds his quill in his fist.
"I think this charm might really be magic," Caspar says as he shoves the papers into Linhardt's chest as they walk to the dining hall for their mid-day meal. "Look at all I wrote!"
It's not much, and it's not in depth, but it is more than the five words Caspar usually manages.
"Interesting." And it is, actually. Linhardt didn't think there was anything in the world that could make Caspar concentrate, but maybe, maybe...
The next day in class, Linhardt effectively tunes out the professor's lecture on lance footwork to study Caspar.
He has to admit, Caspar does seem to focus more. He still bounces his knee up and down, still worries his lip between his teeth, but he has one hand haltingly writing notes, and the other curled in the charm around his neck, eyes trying to watch his hand as he moves stones up and down the twine, spinning them and curling the rope around a finger before shaking it out.
It works, Linhardt notes in his journal. And it keeps working. They go like this - Caspar takes his notes, Linhardt studies them. Caspar jokes that the charm is magic, Linhardt hums in response. Repeat.
The next time it rains, Linhardt is more prepared. He and Caspar lay, Linhardt propped up on a pillow with a book in one hand, Caspar flat on his back and holding his charm in one hand and Linhardt's hand in the other.
The hand-holding doesn't mean anything, Linhardt tells himself. They've held hands for years, since that first day they met, when Caspar pulled him away from where he clung to his father's side.
But Linhardt keeps getting distracted from his book, keeps glancing at Caspar, and it's really quite annoying that he can't seem to concentrate whenever a flash of lightning momentarily brightens the night sky and Caspar's grip tightens, his fingertips digging into Linhardt's knuckles.
When Linhardt realizes he's read the same line on lost crests five times now, without retaining an inch of it, he gives up. Sighing, he resigns himself to the inevitable, reaching over Caspar once again to put away his book.
"Lights off okay?" he double checks, and when Caspar nods, not speaking, he extinguishes his lamp.
"Lin?" Caspar asks once they've settled.
"Yes?"
"Thank you for the charm."
"You're quite welcome."
Pegasus Moon, 1185
They're at war, and Linhardt hates it. His mind feels more befuddled than ever, and he doesn't quite know how to stop it.
He has a routine, and it's sleep, eat, fight, heal, repeat. It's not a routine he wants, but it's the one he has.
Caspar, on the other hand, thrives in these times. His energy finally has an outlet, and Linhardt has to tell him to stop regaling him with tales of battles he's gotten himself into, tales where his gauntlets break and he fights an enemy with his bare fists, tales where he's surrounded by five enemy soldiers and defeats them all, but barely. All it does is worry him.
Linhardt would love nothing more than to bundle Caspar up and keep him, here, at the Monastery. To keep him safe. To keep him from having more blood on his hands and to keep him from the ever present threat of death.
But he can't, and even if he could, he won't. So he does his best to break through the fog and try to save Caspar as best he can, and heal him when he can't.
He doesn't know when he realized he's in love with Caspar. It wasn't a sudden thing, an 'oh, shit' realization. It came upon him slowly, in meals together, in thunderstorms spent with him pressed against his side, in studying, in late-night library interruptions, in his blush and his blue hair and his round eyes.
And now, here Linhardt is, watching Caspar put himself in harm's way, again and again.
Though everything has changed since their days at the Academy, thunderstorms stay the same. Night after warm spring night, Linhardt waits for Caspar, who's getting entirely too large to fit against his side comfortably, but does so anyway, arms wrapped around Linhardt while Linhardt gently rubs his back, murmuring words of comfort.
It's two different kinds of torture - watching your love as he runs headfirst into danger, and watching your love curled against you as you run headfirst into love. Linhardt doesn't know which he'd rather take anymore.
Caspar is reckless. Linhardt knows this, Professor Byleth knows this, every other soldier knows this. But Linhardt is still surprised when Ferdinand frantically calls his name from outside the medical tent after a particularly gruesome clash, and Linhardt exits, hands steady and focused, to see Caspar, on the ground, bloody and burned.
"What happened," he barks at Ferdinand, who tries to explain as best he can while Linhardt gets to work, pushing his emotions to the side as he rolls up his sleeves and prepares a healing spell.
"Dark Flier got him," Ferdinand says. "Got stepped on, too, by the looks of it."
Linhardt purses his lips. "I'll take care of it. Thanks, Ferdinand."
Ferdinand nods, turning and heading back into battle.
"Caspar," Linhardt says, kneeling and gritting his teeth as he prepares to heal what looks like the worst of the injuries, a palm sized burn right below his collarbone. "It's going to sting."
For once, Caspar doesn't respond, simply groaning as the magic seeps into him and the deep red of the burn begins to fade to pink. Linhardt pulls away after a moment, shaking out his hands before preparing another spell.
"Head's bleeding…"
Linhardt pauses for a moment as Caspar slurs his words before continuing. "Yes, you fool, I know. Now hush." He doesn't bother to extrapolate on that, to tell Caspar that head wounds bleed quite a bit and there's more pressing matters. Now that he's got a better look at his wounds, the injuries themselves don't look that serious, but Linhardt's beginning to think he's concussed.
"Linny," Linhardt ignores him, moving on to his swollen and possibly broken wrist after the burn fully fades to a light pink. "Y'said…"
"Trying to concentrate, Caspar."
"Y'said…"
The wrist is definitely broken, Linhardt thinks, pursing his lips. He doesn't know how to perform Recovery, and normal healing won't do much to help with that, so he moves on to the head wound Caspar seems so pressed about.
"... Thunder w'hurt m'anymore…"
"Now, Caspar, don't close your eyes," Linhardt instructs. "Falling asleep is my job."
"Sorry."
"It's all right."
Even now, Caspar is unable to stay still, his unbroken hand tearing up dead grass as Linhardt tries to focus on closing up the gash on the crown of Caspar's head. Caspar's pounding heartbeat is already starting to slow, a bit of color returning to his cheeks.
"M'I'gon die?"
Linhardt snorts. "Don't be so dramatic, Caspar."
"Mmph."
"At the most you'll have a scar."
Caspar's eyes widen at this, as Linhardt knew they would. "Awesome."
"Yes, yes, you'll look extremely rugged." Linhardt picks a flake of dried blood out of Caspar's hair, refocusing as the wound continues to stitch itself back together.
"Handsome?"
Linhardt pointedly ignores the blush that rises in his cheeks at this as Caspar lifts his chin to see his reaction.
Linhardt clears his throat. "Oh, I suppose."
"Aw," Caspar draws out the word, lifting his unbroken hand to awkwardly brush his fingers against the underside of Linhardt's chin. "Y'think m'handsome."
"I think you're concussed." Linhardt takes the hand Caspar has raised in his, healing the bruised and bloody knuckles there.
Caspar seems to agree with this thought. "Yeah."
"Can you stand? Manuela has herbs to calm you in the tent, but I've more patients to get to and leaving my best friend to die in the dirt seems a bit too rude."
"Mm."
Linhardt takes this as a yes, and stands, brushing off his robes and reaching a hand down to haul Caspar to his feet. Caspar rises, unsteady, and what little color had returned to his face vanishes almost immediately.
"Easy," Linhardt cautions, and Caspar leans heavily into him. "Nice and slow."
"Shut up," Caspar mutters, but obeys him anyway.
Together, they make their way into the tent, Linhardt calling for calming herbs as he guides Caspar to an empty cot.
"Rest, but don't sleep." Linhardt tells him. "At least not until Manuela tells you to. She'll be by for your wrist in a second."
"Yep."
"I'll come back when I've- when I'm done treating the others. Stay here."
"Yep."
When Linhardt returns, hours later as the day is fading into night, Caspar is laying in the same position, on his back, chewing resolutely on the nails of one hand as the other, healed but still bandaged, rests on his propped up legs, clutching something between its fingers.
When Linhardt steps closer, he pauses. He recognizes it - the rope wrapped around Caspar's hand.
He had made it for him, all those years ago.
"You came back," Caspar says, turning to face Linhardt.
"You're looking better."
"I feel better. Must've been all that amazing healing you did."
"Sound back to normal, too. Albeit less talkative."
"Shut up."
"Okay."
A beat.
"You look tired, Linhardt."
"Astute observation, as always."
Caspar snorts. "Come here."
"Caspar, you can barely fit on that cot yourself. The only way we could share is if I'm laying on top of you."
Caspar flushes, blush crawling down his neck as he says, much too loudly for a medical tent, "What is that supposed- You can't just- Linhardt!"
Manuela glares at them from the other side of the tent, where she's tending to Annette, who'd caught a brutal slash from a rapier across her midsection that's resolutely refusing to close all the way.
Linhardt pretends not to notice both Caspar's fluster and Manuela's look, instead opting to tilt his head and say, "Come, Caspar, you're near to okay, now. You can move back to the field with the rest of us and free up a bed."
"Okay!" Caspar says, again too loudly. "It's been way boring without you."
He moves to push himself up, but Linhardt reaches out a hand, placing it on his shoulder. "Steady. You're still hurt."
"No I'm not," Caspar protests, but does as he says, moving slower than Linhardt thought possible.
Linhardt looks down as they walk out of the tent, watching as Caspar brings his hands together, moving the charm (and Goddess, he still had that charm), carefully into his other hand before placing it in hispocket. He looks up, making eye contact with Linhardt in the dim of the night, and Linhardt can just barely make out the blush on his cheeks.
"What?" Caspar says.
Linhardt doesn't answer, just turns forward as they near camp.
When they settle, Caspar doesn't ask, and he doesn't have to. Linhardt's already holding open his sleeping roll for him, moving his head to the side of his thin pillow so Caspar can join.
"Yeah I probably shouldn't sleep, still, huh?" Caspar says, talking quickly as he slides in next to Linhardt. "Since I have a concussion and all."
It's been enough time that Caspar actually would be fine, but before Linhardt can respond, Caspar continues.
"But I mean, like, you can sleep, if you want. I won't be mad at you. You're exhausted and, like, I can just lay here and I'll be okay and you can sleep. And I'll lay here and watch. Or, I mean, not watch you sleep because that would be weird and kind of creepy, but I'll just lay here and watch the, uh, the sky. How does that sound?"
Linhardt turns his head. "Anything more to say?" It's cute, he thinks, the way Caspar's nose scrunches indignantly whenever he teases him.
Caspar puts his hand on Linhardt's face and pushes it away. "I'm trying to be polite, dipshit."
"Ever so polite, calling me a dipshit."
"Shut up."
Linhardt does shut up, turning onto his back. He is exhausted - Caspar's right, but it's cold, and his pillow is uncomfortable, and Caspar's there, he's right there, and even though he knows that Caspar thinks he's being still, his legs are kicking and his hand is tapping and it's as annoying as it is endearing.
After a few minutes of this, Linhardt gives up. He turns back to Caspar to see him laying much as he was in the tent earlier, chewing on his nails with that charm wrapped around his hand. Caspar glances over and sees Linhardt watching him, and his eyebrows furrow as he drops his hand, sheepish.
"I didn't know you still had that," Linhardt says.
Caspar's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens, then closes.
"Can I see it?" Linhardt frees an arm from the bedroll before reaching over, gently unwrapping it from around Caspar's hand. His fingers are cold, and Linhardt ignores the inane desire to warm them for him.
"It's not weird," Caspar blurts as Linhardt twists one stone around the twine. The charm has clearly seen some rougher days - the twine has frayed and has obviously been cut then retied by clumsy hands. Dirt is embedded deep into the creases of it, and the stones are rubbed smooth and gray.
"I didn't say it was."
"It helps, you know."
"Okay."
"I just mean it helps me concentrate in meetings and everything, probably because it's magic, and also you told me it would protect me during storms, and I know it's dumb, I just, yeah. I felt like it did. And you said it wouldn't let thunder hurt me but I guess that one was wrong." Caspar lets out a nervous, high-pitched laugh, fingers brushing against the imprint of the burn still there along his collarbone.
"Caspar."
"And I don't know, I just like to keep it in my pocket during battles because it doesn't fit as a necklace anymore, and I'm scared it'll fall off my wrist, and it just feels like I'll be okay so long as-"
"Caspar."
"What?"
"If you want me to make you a new one, I can. That way you can have it as a necklace again." Linhardt brushes the charm across the palm of one hand.
Caspar is silent, and Linhardt turns his head, meeting his gaze across the pillow. Caspar's eyes are illuminated in the moonlight, darker blue giving way to the pale cerulean of the morning sky.
"Um," Caspar starts, then takes a breath. "Um."
"Cat got your tongue, Caspar?" Linhardt offers the charm back to him, and Caspar looks down at it, and Linhardt looks at Caspar.
Instead of taking it back, Caspar places his hand in Linhardt's, curling his fist around the charm and then just leaving it there, against Linhardt's palm.
"I think I like this one," Caspar says. "If it's all the same to you. I like it and it's familiar and it's nice and I like it."
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, that's what I just- Hey, wait a minute."
"What?"
"You're teasing me."
Linhardt slides his palm out from under Caspar's fist, returning it to his side. "You just make it much too easy, Caspar."
"One of these days I'll get you back." Caspar pouts.
"How wonderful. I look forward to it."
They fall silent, Linhardt turning back to watch the sky. Caspar continues to fidget, pausing to yawn ever so often.
"Caspar, you can sleep now, you know."
"What, really? How come you didn't say anything?"
"I just did."
"Ugh, fine."
And then Caspar does something Linhardt isn't quite expecting. In one motion, he shoves the charm back into his pocket and then shifts closer to Linhardt, looping his arm around his and laying his head against Linhardt's shoulder.
It's not that they've never been this close before - years of Linhardt comforting him during thunderstorms leads to a sort of casual intimacy often found among best friends. However, they've rarely been this close with clear skies, when Caspar isn't overridden with fear, when Linhardt isn't trying to keep him from panicking.
It's new, but it's nice, Linhardt thinks, and even though there's no way Caspar can be in love with him, too (for when has he ever been able to hide his emotions?), he finds himself pretending, just for a moment.
On their way home in the morning, it begins to rain.
Caspar hides under Linhardt's covers, shivering, and Linhardt scratches his back with one hand, the other propping open a journal.
On the second day of storms, Caspar clings to Linhardt, face buried in his shoulder. Linhardt can feel his breath against his neck. It's distracting.
On the third day, Linhardt questions how much more of Caspar living in his room he can take before his heart combusts. He watches from his place across the room as Caspar sits on the edge of his bed, feet on the floor and rubbing his eyes.
"What are you looking at?" Caspar asks, the fight still in his voice despite the thunder pounding outside.
"You."
Caspar's face goes red, and Linhardt turns away, back to the pile of books he's sorting in front of him.
"Well, I didn't say to stop looking!" Linhardt glances back to see Caspar crossing his arms in front of his chest, chin in the air.
Linhardt can't help but laugh.
"What?!"
He shakes his head, turning back to his books.
"What's so funny?" Caspar stands and Linhardt can hear him moving closer. "Here, come on, watch this!" Linhardt turns to see Caspar, in the middle of his room and raising his arms in a flexing motion.
"You're ridiculous." Linhardt thinks he should be annoyed by now at Caspar's boundless energy, but he's not. His friend has spent the better part of three days in his room, talking his ear off and never not moving, and if it were anyone else, Linhardt would have kicked them out ages ago.
But it's Caspar, and Caspar, well, he's Caspar , and Linhardt finds himself being grateful for this seemingly never ending storm as he looks at him, standing there with pride on his face and his hair mussed, grinning.
That is, until a particularly close flash of lightning strikes, and Caspar bolts to Linhardt instinctively, coming down on the floor next to him.
Linhardt teases Caspar about many things, but never this, he thinks as he wraps his arms around him, Caspar shivering in his embrace. He may not understand what causes such a deep and paralyzing fear of storms, when Caspar himself is the closest thing to a storm he's ever known, but he knows he'll never ask.
After the crash of thunder passes, Caspar pulls away slightly, one hand still gripping the back of Linhardt's tunic. "How close was that?"
"Not close enough to hurt," Linhardt assures him, brushing strands of blue hair from his forehead.
Caspar relaxes, easing back but not letting go. "Good. Wish this stupid storm would end already."
And Linhardt means to murmur back an agreement, to say something to reassure him, but he finds himself saying, instead, "Oh, I don't mind this."
Caspar's looking at him, and he's looking back, hand now cupping Caspar's face. Caspar seems to recall something, and says, "You called me handsome."
Linhardt feels a heat rising in his cheeks. "I didn't think you remembered that."
"I wouldn't forget that, dipshit."
"Oh."
And then Linhardt's mind goes blank, because Caspar is kissing him, and their noses bump and Caspar misses and then he's pulling back, and then he moves back forward, and then Linhardt is kissing Caspar, too.
Linhardt thinks it's almost romantic, sitting here on the floor with Caspar, a pile of books on the ground in front of him and rain pounding on the window outside. Caspar's breath is stale, and he's overenthusiastic, and he's not very good at this, but Linhardt doesn't mind. He doesn't mind much at all, with his hands bracketing either side of Caspar's face, pulling him closer. He doesn't mind much of anything at the moment, at least until Caspar tries to push him onto his back and he falls into a pile of books, knocking several askew with a loud clatter.
Caspar pulls back, half over Linhardt, hands on either side of him as he props himself up. Linhardt stays exactly where he is, and he thinks he quite likes the way Caspar looks right now, disheveled and wide-eyed.
"I think I'm in love with you," Caspar blurts out, and he almost has to laugh.
"What an awful inconvenience," Linhardt drawls, and before Caspar can interject, his nose scrunching in that adorable way, Linhardt continues, "As I'm quite sure I'm in love with you, and I don't have much room for unsure people in my life."
"What- that's- Why didn't you say anything?"
"What, pray tell, do you think I'm doing right now?"
"Shut up," Caspar says.
Linhardt taps him on the nose. "You know, Caspar, it's quite cute when you get annoyed with me. Do it more often, will you?"
"What? No. Shut up. You're cute." Caspar's blush deepens.
Linhardt just smiles up at him. "Now kiss me again before I get bored."
Caspar shifts before leaning down again, and the kiss is softer this time, gentler.
Caspar may need a lucky charm, Linhardt thinks, but Linhardt already has his own.
And he doesn't think he'll ever let go.