Work Text:
Caspar didn’t really keep books around, unless they were from Ashe or for Linhardt. So when Linhardt spotted one he didn’t recognize, of course he had to open it. It was small and worn, battered thin from being shoved between shelves through the years. It didn’t have a name on the cover or the back, or what he assumed was it. It felt more like a journal.
‘I didn’t take Caspar for one to keep...a diary.’
Though, the fighter had no problem expressing himself every chance he got. It couldn’t be that much of a surprise.
‘I guess the bigger surprise is that he writes at all.’
Linhardt smiled fondly. Caspar wasn’t here to stop him.
He flipped through the booklet, the flimsy binding barely holding frayed and yellowed pages in place. As much as he wanted to sit and read each page, he thought better of it. For now.
He intended on just taking a quick glance, nothing more. In many ways, his friend was already an open book. But, the scent of Angelica began to whaff in front of him. He took a deep breath, the scent of his favorite tea, the dust from the journal, the general smell of Caspar’s bedroom. It reminded him of so many things. So many wonderful things. He gently pushed a few pages forward, until he landed on a page with the herb pressed between. The booklet naturally fell open flat, a sign of repeated use.
His eyes skimmed over the page once.
Twice.
Thrice. And then paused.
He caught his name a few times.
A quiet curiosity flew over him. He listened to the room around him, not hearing any footsteps. Just birds chirping, insects, noises from the courtyard below. ‘Caspar should be out training with the professor, for at least a while longer. I have time.’
He began to read the two pages in earnest. It's riddled in blotches and phrases crossed out. Caspar had written about the time...Oh no.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Linhardt, I don’t know how to say this. And, I don’t know how you’re so, relaxed all the time. I guess it’s because you don’t spend every waking moment with the person you like, huh? It must be pretty easy.
Linhardt. I like spending time with you. Getting you to laugh, even when it’s at me, is- I think about it whenever I see you. I’m always trying to impress you. I think you know.
Yeah, you definitely know.
But still, whenever you look at me, whether it’s just for me or because you actually want to...it makes me so happy. Your smile makes me so happy.
When you saw that note….I wanted to run. When you ignored it, God, I wanted to run. But that’s okay. I’m glad nothing changed. Maybe you just, didn’t read it?
I still wish that we could’ve gone to the goddess tower, that night. Would you have gone with me? I don’t want to know.
He placed everything as it was, before retiring to his room. He would see Caspar tomorrow.
Whether he wanted to or not.
He was grateful to be alone for now, though. Laying on his bed, mulling over the words in that journal, the one that he was never supposed to see.
He was definitely not supposed to see that. Read that.
He thought about the“note.” Almost regrettably, he knows exactly what Caspar is talking about. It had been rather simple, but it had Linhardt reeling nonetheless.
Caspar rarely ever took notes. Not on purpose, he just couldn’t keep his eyes trained on paper for that long. Linhardt understood that much. He was no better when it came to more, physical, subjects. But, Caspar still tried to take notes on the lectures.
Oh, was he trying.
In the end, he had to ask Linhardt to supplement some of his notes, and of course, the ‘medic’ agreed. It’s not like he was paying attention the entire time, so he asked to review Caspar’s in turn. It was a simple, mutual interaction.
When Caspar handed him a haphazard mass of papers, Linhardt didn’t expect to find any sort of confession. He didn’t ever expect any confession. Not from him. But among all the sheets, in the midst of retaking his notes, Linhardt flipped to a page that only had a few words. The ink on it still hadn’t dried.
“Linhardt, will you go to the Goddess Tower with me?” - Caspar
Linhardt froze. Immediately the sheet had been taken from him.
“My bad, those aren’t notes.” Caspar nonchalantly balled the sheet up and tossed it to the far corner of his room. He resumed taking notes from Linhardt’s own. Linhardt followed suit, as if nothing had happened.
After staring at the wall, thinking about what could have been those many years ago, he raises himself, outwardly unfazed. He walks over to his desk, pulling a clean sheet of paper from under the mess of reports and old texts and every other thing he took much too. He pushes them all to the side, creating a flat space to work on. He grabs a quill, and one of many bottles of ink strewn across his desk. He takes a seat in the midst of it all.
‘Everything...can be dealt with later.’
He took ink to the parchment:
Caspar,
Do you really not want to know? If I would…? You’ve already seen all these bad sides of me, at this point I don’t think I want to tell you. I wouldn’t be able to handle the response.
I had a crush on you too, you know? You were so cool, and I tried so hard to be. I liked you. I like you, but I don’t know if it’s the same anymore.
He thinks about stopping there. He doesn’t.
How did you feel when I got into a relationship? You know, I thought about you so much. I think that girl got a little jealous of how much time I spent with you instead, in that classroom on the top floor, with a teacher who didn’t belong.
Those words are seared into me. I can’t forget them. I’m not always thinking about them, but sometimes they’ll just drift into mind. And I think about them.
It hurts, you know, not being able to go back. But I’ll probably forget about this ache, next week when I have too much to do and no intention of doing much.
He waited until the ink dried. Then took it in one fist, crushing the center, until the unintelligible mass of wrinkles had little chance at ever being restored. And left it there.